


Where Legend Remains

by coffeeguru



Series: Do I Dare Disturb The Universe? [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Lore, Dragon Age Spoilers, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, elvhen introspection, mild AU, spoilers galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 66
Words: 165,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru/pseuds/coffeeguru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rowan Lavellan fell out of the Fade and was declared Herald and Inquisitor.  But her sense of otherness began long before the events of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  This is the story of a bare-faced Dalish trying to find her place in the world beyond the strictures of society.</p><p>And then an apostate with titles and no home gets her ass dragged into the conflict of it all by a silver-tongued wordsmith with no concern for her sanity.  This is also becoming her story, whether she wanted it to be or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Even the Stars are Silent

**Author's Note:**

> Of course some in-game dialogue and the timeline has been changed, mainly to adjust to the flow of the story. The plan is to be regularly updated, but we'll see how that goes as the work flows on.
> 
> [Eisen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen), who is obviously a masochist, has agreed to be my beta. Please, send kudos, love, and sympathy cards for dealing with my insanity.
> 
> And now with amazing art by the wonderful [Grimmcake](http://grimmcake.tumblr.com/) on Ch. 1, the lovely [ CrypticWraith](http://crypticwraith.deviantart.com/) on Ch. 10, the amazing [Dissatisfied Doodles](http://dissatisfied-doodles.tumblr.com/) on Ch. 13, and the phenomenal [Eisen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen) on Ch. 35!

The night was filled with stars. Since the Breach, the sky had kept an odd greenish hue, from leftover Fade magic, like an evil aurora, or the visible scar of some long illness. But the stars were still there, and Rowan basked in their light. She needed their comfort after. . .everything. 'Sulenaan. Sing to me like you used to, please,' she silently implored the lights. 

Her entreaty brought back memories of her father. It was he who pointed out the disparity between the races, not with murderous dissension, but with the thought that everyone could be better, unified if they had a common cause that would break through centuries of anger and mistrust. 

He was a large part of the reason why she had declared the elves as an integral part of the mission of the Inquisition. Her father would have wanted his daughter to do what she could to start to unify Thedas, to heal it like she had healed the Breach. So she wore the burden and the Mark with as much dignity as possible, in the memory of a man who sang the terrors away. That's why she happily welcomed anyone who would fight alongside her, and strove to understand all the different people who made up her army. Because they were all people, united. 

‘Herald of Andraste,’ ‘Inquisitor,’ and so many other titles had been granted, or maybe, more accurately, thrust upon her. She had no idea if she had been chosen by Someone, or if it all been some accident of chance, though she suspected it might be the same thing, being in the right place at the right time, or, as she felt the mark pulse and sting, the wrong time. 

'Knife-Ear' and ‘Flat-Ear’ were other occasional titles, ones she paid little mind to, because small minds would cease to care about the hurt they caused. And what she had received from her own people had been far worse than any petty epithet.

Her Dalish brethren had mocked her when they heard about her journey through the Fade, sword-edged missives decrying the fact that she had taken on the mantle of a shemlen prophet for a Maker they did not believe in, would not acknowledge as more than a story exaggerated by humans who were jealous of the Elvhen pantheon. Oh, their official documents said they would support her work, because the breach and the Elder One were a threat to them all, but in the personal notes she received, she was informed not to consider herself one of the People anymore, in any tribe. She was to have no quarter with them except as the species-less Inquisitor.

Her greatest shame according to her people was that she believed in more. She had never found why the Maker and the Old Gods were mutually exclusive. She was no theologian, but why could they not have existed side by side? Her own people spoke of the creation of the Creators, but it was akin to blasphemy to wonder if perhaps the Maker was the spark that gave them their life. 

As her Keeper’s First, she had been given some leeway when bringing these questions forward to the others; eccentricities often came along with weaving magic, and her studies would bring her around to the ways of the Dales, they felt. Even choosing not to take the vallaslin was a decision that left them wide-eyed and wary, but they were sure that she would fall in line, especially once she saw the petty squabbles of the shemlen at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She would come running back to be tattooed and embrace the ways they knew were best. But now that she had abandoned them, as they declared, to be the representative of a round-eared god and his whore, she might as well have docked her ears and spread her legs to breed a slew of quickened half-breeds who would grow up to slaughter her clan. They were not so secretly glad to find an excuse to remove her embarrassment from their sights.

She was no fool; she knew that the humans had done her people wrong, and their behavior was sometimes both cruel and careless, the alienages being perhaps the greatest example of the abuses still continuing. She also knew that her people made no effort to change the attitudes of others. They even shunned their brethren who had ended up in the cities, calling them flat-eared and reducing them to another stereotype. The People would rather be isolated in the Dales and speak of an idyllic world that had been than foster a peace and understanding between the disparate groups and look towards a future where trust could be kindled. Immortality was gone, and frankly she had a hard time believing it was just because humans had come along and destroyed some Utopia with their mere being.

Rowan lay back against the cool wood shingles, and let the tears hang at the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t cried, even after those notes had arrived at Skyhold. Leliana had looked at her with something like sympathy, and then quickly away, when she handed her the sealed letters. The fact that her spymaster knew the words before she didn’t rankle her; it was her job, and the small tells gave her a moment to steel herself before reading that her life had become even more of a shambles.

By the appearance of the third one, she couldn't take anymore of the insults, but if she was given them she would read each word, and her heart would continue to bleed.“If more come of a similar nature, feel free to disregard them. There’s no need to trouble yourself about handing these off to me. They’re of little import.”

An almost imperceptible sigh came before the nod. The lie came easily to her tongue; she knew it was in her best interest to not take any more daggers to the heart than necessary. She had to keep strong and focused, if not for herself, then for the people who counted on her, which honestly appeared to be all of Thedas, whether they acknowledged that or not. Her dreams would simply have to stay unfulfilled, the tribute to her father so many shards scattered to the winds.

What did Bull call it, in that Qunari tongue so harshly different from the sibilant sounds of Elvhen? Tal Vashoth. The word was violent, as she suspected it was meant to be, saying you were no longer part of the Qun, reminding you that you’d been cut off from something you once embraced with joy. That's what she was. Din elvhen to her own blood, a boil they were glad enough to lance and forget, a memory they ignored around the fires at home.

Her thoughts strayed to her current situation. In a strange way, she had found a home here, and she was part of something in a way she had never been among those who were her kinsmen, who held her apart as something other, even when she was their First. True, this motley crew of assembled refugees and adventurers was initially as alien to her as the Dalish were to them, but they had embraced her, first formally, as if unsure of her status. Was she a threat or a savior? Then, after stumbling through the ravine from Haven, they embraced her as a leader. She would steer them all to victory against their common foe, and keep them safe in the process. Now, well, now there were warm embraces from her closest allies, the members of her new family. 

They were all so very different, but she loved them dearly, and they at the very least tolerated each other. Though they seemed to be becoming siblings in arms, teasing and tormenting each other, just like a family. They argued lustily, laughed uproariously, and held each other when comfort was needed or wanted. And they strived to do this all for her as much as for themselves. 

For her. . .it was so very foreign to have others making choices based upon her wants and desires, on her preferences. She wondered sometimes if she had ever actually left the Fade or if she was still there, in some half-waking state, imagining all of this. She’d have to ask Solas if that was possible. He’d surely have some ideas that she could set aside an afternoon listening to, and maybe he’d reveal a little more about himself. . . .

No, she wasn’t on the roofs of Skyhold to wool gather about him. She had been dodging him for the past three days, so she wasn’t out here to ponder the mysteries of her Wolf. Come to think of it, she had always meant to ask him why he wore the predator’s jawbone around his neck. She had just assumed it was some “I’m an elf with ancient knowledge you can’t grasp in your pretty Dalish mind” talisman. Or he could have just found it pretty in some morbid sort of way. You could never tell with him. Almost never. But no, she would not wonder if the warmth in her belly when she shocked a laugh out of him was more than just nostalgia for those she had left behind. And if that moment in the Faded Haven was simply a fluke, or if it was more.

“Lethallan, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re sitting up here in the middle of the night.” Ah, there he was. She knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever, or his ageless patience in getting to the heart of an issue. She moved aside to give him room.

“Lethallan.” She snorted. “That would be exactly why I’m up here.” He raised an eyebrow slightly at the oddity of her statement, but came up and joined her on the roof regardless. Endless curiosity drew him in to explore the nooks and crannies of existence, and she knew she fascinated him.

Rowan handed him one of the letters from home after he settled in. He produced a small light to read by, scanned the note, and swore very colorfully. “Fenedhis. Foolish, small minded children. They do not understand the gift they have been given. Instead they turn back to superstition and fear."

"I wish they would have given this, given me, at least a chance at success. But no, it's much easier to look away from what makes them uncomfortable, and blame me instead for failing at my duty to shun the shemlen and return to where I belonged. So that they could tell me what was in their best interest. I'm surprised they didn’t demand I cut off my arm so I wouldn’t be tainted by ‘quick’ ways."

He scoffed at her words. "You are more than they could ever hope to be. Fail them? No, Da'len, they have failed you. Your work will shape the very world, and your choices will make them tremble at their shortsightedness. Do not spend more time thinking on their stupidity. Look, instead, to what you will achieve." He always became more animated when speaking about her potential. His eyes practically gleamed with excitement, with something akin to hope.

He crumpled the parchment in his hand, and it was enveloped in flames. The wind caused it to flare quickly and then die away, and ashes swirled away into the night. "They are nothing to your work. You will usher in a new world, and likely better theirs in the process, despite their protestations of being content mired in mediocrity. Give them no more thought and look instead to your people here." 

He grabbed her left hand held it up between them. "This gives you the power to change the world." His hand curled over hers, long fingers cradling her palm like a precious stone. They stayed like that for a moment, and she wondered what he truly wanted. She wondered at times if he saw her at all, or if she was an extension of the Mark, a piece of the Fade with a Dalish attached. He stared at it intently, as though trying to work out its pattern. “Truly beautiful, even in its frightening power. Like a fire, or a storm over the ocean.”

Finally he relinquished her hand, brushed the ashes off of his tunic, and stood. "You should come in, Lethallan. There's much to do, and the night is waning. A champion needs rest like all mere mortals." He reached out a hand to her, but she shook her head slightly, a small, sad smile on her face.

"A few more minutes, and I will. Call it a time to mourn before moving on." He nodded slightly.

"Ma nuvenin...Inquisitor." He looked for a moment like he would say something else, and she willed him to, to pull back more of the veil he shrouded himself in and be more than a mystery, but then he turned away and headed back to his tower, becoming part of the shadows in the night.

"Dar'eth shiral, Solas," she said softly. He was always going to be the elusive lone Wolf, and she supposed she wouldn't have him any other way. And his people skills would always leave something to be desired. But he tried, at least a little, for her. And she loved him for it, and was content. 

The stars stayed quiet, content to whirl across the sky in silence. With a sigh, Rowan acquiesced to Solas' recommendation, and went back to her quarters, preparing to greet the dawn as she had for the past two days. There was a bottle on her desk that called to her, but she ignored oblivion. She assumed that exhaustion would finally allow her some rest when she collapsed.


	2. Silent Interventions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation is had, of sorts, and warmth is found.

Her family. Yes, that was what she had been thinking about those nights before. The battles had been fiercer and the tolls greater as the days had turned to weeks. They were all tired, all weary and frustrated, angry at the unrelenting bloody red templars, the extreme temperatures of the lands they travelled to, the endless, fruitless quests. . .and the bastard who had brought them all together. Corypheus. He brought them here, bound them more deeply than any blood or lineage or other nonsensical foolish way of determining who your kin were. She laughed derisively. ‘I’ll have to thank the son of a bitch for bringing these people into my life. . .right before I blast him into tiny little lyrium shards. I wonder if Cullen could teach me how to wield that blasted sword they gave me effectively, one I could channel through...the lessons alone might be worth it.’

She shook her head of the oh so easy distraction. As with the Wolf, she steadfastly wasn’t out here to think about the amber-eyed Lion in his den. Strong and fierce, dedicated to the pride he commanded, wounded but not broken. He was a leader, with moments of sharp wit that made her laugh aloud, and sometimes she saw behind the armor of his eyes the flicker of something. . .more.

Another sleepless night found her sitting up on the roof, still hoping for a song, or at least an answer to her desperate plea for rest. Her emotions were running wild, varying between despair and ruthless cold cynicism, and neither would bring her peace.

It was chilly, and Rowan pulled her knees to her chest to keep warm. She shivered slightly, and looked back up at the sky. The stars were still silent. She sighed. "So, Andraste, you're supposed to be the one who listens. I'd ask Fen'Harel, but I think he'd be as likely to push me into the Fade as help save me from it. If I didn't know better I'd say that this was all his doing, some sick game of his to watch the world get ripped apart at the seams. 

"Do you think you can tell me when the pain stops? Should I just become numb to it all? Am I just your Herald and the Inquisitor, and nothing more? Is that the way to make it through all this? I mean, the stories seem to say you took your betrayal in stride. Burning at the stake can't be pleasant, and watching the sword come toward you as the flames leapt around you should have at least been unsettling. I bet your hair wasn’t even out of place." She felt her own long brown tresses catch and tangle in the breeze. "I certainly can't say the same."

She laughed a little at her own absurdity, having conversations with the air. A slight rustling caught her attention and she looked down to see a blanket, neatly folded, sitting beside her. "Thank you, Cole," she said, and wrapped it around her. Her masochism only went so far, and she was getting cold. The spirit-boy was somehow always able to know when help was needed, and she loved him for it, and for his quiet earnest need to learn about how to be more flesh and blood than spirit.

Pulling it over her face, Rowan breathed deeply, trying to warm her nose. And stilled. She did not, however, love that he didn't always seem to consider where he got his gifts. The scent of leather and fur, with the barest hints of soap and lyrium were unmistakable. "Oh, Cole." He was leaving the Lion without bedding. He already didn't have a roof. She didn't need her Commander catching a cold over her folly.

She slid down off the shingles, the blanket still wrapped around her like a poorly constructed cape. She just hoped he wasn't asleep when Cole had gone on his scavenger hunt. That would be awkward to explain.

She needn't have worried. The lights were flickering in his den, and she knocked slightly, entering when he said to.


	3. The Weight of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things become clear, before they become veiled again.

"Row-Inquis-" he stood up from behind the pile of paperwork on his desk, for once not wearing every ounce of armor he owned, so the tell-tale clank was missing as he moved around the mess. He took a breath and started again. "What can I do for you at this hour?"

He looked nonplussed. Varric claimed (usually out of Cullen's hearing) he used some magical tonic to tame his hair. But tonight his telltale curls, the bane of his existence, (also thanks to Varric), were disheveled. The shadows under his amber eyes had deepened, and he held himself stiffly, as though he had either injured himself or had sat in the same position for far too long. She was struck by the...humanity of him. "I believe I have something of yours." She pulled the blanket from around her shoulders and held it out to him. "I'm so sorry, and I'll be sure to talk to him about it, but I believe Cole thought I needed it, and he must have taken-"

"He didn't take it," he said quietly. "I...gave it to him."

She blushed slightly. "Oh! I didn't know! That was very kind of you, but I can get him his own, I'm sure."

He shook his head, and his own face colored. He reached up to rub the back of his neck. "You misunderstand. I gave it to him. To give to you."

"To-what? How-?" She, the consummate conversationalist, was reduced to single words.

"I...saw you...on the roof. I had taken a break from my work, and you have to admit that a woman with a glowing hand sitting on the top of the battlements isn't a common sight. Or at least it hasn't been until recently." He sighed. "Andraste's Grace, why do I always feel as though I'm spouting nonsense around you? I thought you might be cold, and I asked Cole if he might deliver it to you without disturbing you. I'm the one who should apologize, because obviously it did, and-oh Maker, Rowan!"

She sank to the ground clutching the blanket to her, decorum forgotten. Her arms wrapped around herself and she simply broke down. The woman who led countless people into untold dangers, who risked her life every day slaying demons and sealing rifts, who could play politics and war games with the best of them, was sobbing on the floor of the office of her overworked commander.

After being momentarily paralyzed by the unexpected display, he took stock of the situation, like any good officer, and dropped to his knees, gently reaching out to her. She didn't hesitate and he wrapped his arms around her. Her tears soaked his shirt, and he didn't mind. This woman he cared for more than he should was in pain, something he could very much sympathize with, and he wanted to take it away. He let her cry, just murmuring words of comfort into her hair as she wept.

"What can I do?" He would hold her until the world ended if that was what she wanted.

She pulled away slightly, sliding her hands away, and her tear-stained face broke his heart. Her blue eyes were too bright and too large when she looked at him. "Just, please, keep remembering who I am, so someone does." She dropped her gaze from him, but didn't completely let go, and he could feel her on the edge of sobbing again.

"How could I ever forget you? You're indelibly etched on my shirt." There was a pause before she burst out laughing, mirth mingling with sorrow, but the tears kept pouring down, and she felt like they would never stop, that she would cry forever. 

He used his thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "I will always remember you. The woman who came through the Fade, sacrificed herself for strangers in Haven, who leads us now to face Corypheus. 

"The same woman, mind you, who bought fifty copies of Varric's book for the hold, to make him lose a bet over his print numbers, who leaves piles of commissions at Blackwall's workbench and sends the works to the children left behind by the war. Vivienne has no shortage of pupils to teach proper court etiquette. And Dorian's personal library, as well as his sense of self-worth, have grown exponentially thanks to you."

Her eyes widened. "How do you know all of this? I didn’t think anyone noticed."

His mouth lifted on the scarred side, just a hint of smug satisfaction. "Leliana has her ways, and I have mine. People tend to forget that to command you also have to observe." His eyes narrowed slightly. " Like seeing a pair of women, one in very loud yellow trews, sneak into my office on some nefarious mission. My desk is still out of sorts, mind you."

She colored at that, but didn’t confess her crime. "Or like spotting your fool Inquisitor freezing on a rooftop?"

"Like spotting a woman I...Maker's breath...alone and cold on a rooftop seemingly looking for something." As if remembering the catalyst of the whole situation, he pulled the blanket around Rowan's shoulders. "Now perhaps you could tell me why you’re crying? I assume it's not the quality of my bedding that's upset you."

Her lips quirked slightly. "No, I happen to approve and am thinking of requisitioning some for my own bed." She looked away. "I...received some news from ho-from the clan, and I believe you may have broken my resolve to stay untouched by it."


	4. Calm and Distressed, Torn and Most Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions are shared, and moments are created.

Haltingly, and with more, quieter, tears, Rowan told him. The way she tried not to let the words hurt her, the sense of failure that she couldn't make them understand, and her anger at their stubborn refusal to see beyond themselves. Through everything, Cullen just held her and listened, occasionally drying her face with the edge of the blanket.

Finally, there were no more tears and she sighed softly, sagging against him, exhausted. "Gods, I'm sorry, Cullen. I've just unloaded almost every burden I have on you, sitting on you on your decidedly uncomfortable stone floor. And you've suffered it all in silence. You may very well be a saint."

"I am no saint," he said, slowly and stiffly lifting them both off of the floor. She put an arm around his shoulder as he supported her legs. "I would normally not complain, but someone has my blanket, and I have an army to direct. A commander with frostbite is undignified." He moved them to his wing chair. "Would you care to sit, or-"

"I think I'm content with the chair I had before, if you don't mind."

He sat down with her still in his arms. "It is reserved for you at any time." He blushed, just a slight reddening of his cheeks, and she decided she liked the flush on him.

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you. Tell me, Commander, how did you become so adept at dealing with hysterical females? I think I would have dumped a bucket of ice water on myself and said it was high time to pull myself together."

"I hope my approach was slightly less abrasive."

“Immeasurably.”

“And you aren’t hysterical, Inquisitor. Upset, most definitely. And understandably so.”

“Upset. . .yes, that’s one way to describe it.” She sighed “Upset, tired, angry, scared. . .and confessing all of this to you because I’ve got an outstanding ability to fall apart messily at the worst possible moments, and you seem to the be the one able to catch me. Which is something you seem to be uniquely qualified for.”

“I did grow up with several women, all of whom had. . .difficulty. . .at times, and I was often tasked with being their sounding board for all manner of issues.”

“And fortunately you were gifted with a supernatural amount of patience, for which I’m eternally grateful.”

Cullen barked a laugh. “Patience? I’m perhaps one of the least patient members of the Inquisition. Cassandra may have me beat on that account, but only barely. Solas, however. . .that elven gentleman has the patience of a small country. He’s the only one I know who may be able to beat our Ambassador at waiting for the results of an intricate plan set in motion months previously. He’s the one I would think you’d approach if you were looking for patience.”

“Yes. . .you would think so,” Rowan said dryly. Cullen blinked at her tone.

“I thought you and Solas were closer than...well...."

She shook her head. "I care for him, of course. And I had thought for a while that there may have been more than that. But there’s too much pain and anger in him, no matter how he tries to hide it with his veneer of rationality. It clouds everything else, I think, and it keeps me at arm's length. 

"I'm drawn to him, I admit, because I want to help him, to heal him, but he can't accept it, much like a wounded animal lashes out at its caretakers. So, he locks everyone out.

"For him I am an answer to a puzzle, a key for a lock. He cares, I know, and I've seen glimmers of it, but he's the Wolf, and there's always a certain distance there. There always will be, because however he may once have been, it's the results that matter for him now. So he sees what I am." Rowan paused, and looked down at the blanket. "You see who I am."

"Anyone who doesn't see you is a fool." He impulsively brushed his lips over the top of her hair.

'And lions are not fools,' she thought to herself. He immediately contradicted her.

"But I am a fool for not seeing sooner the strain you were under. My senses have been...dulled of late."

"The lyrium?"

"Yes. It's not giving up the fight yet. But neither am I." He sighed and shifted slightly, effectively directing her away from the conversation. This time was for her. "But you didn't come to hear my complaints. How many days have you gone without sleep?"

She thought about lying, but it wasn't in her. And he would likely know. "The first letter arrived a week ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After today, I think updates will be coming about once a week until I get closer to completion. The story is expanding on the page faster than I can keep up, and I want to make sure that things stay fairly cohesive and flow smoothly.
> 
> Also, Sera has said she wants more of a voice, so out of fear of my breeches, I must comply.


	5. The Mirror Crack'd From Side To Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story is told, a barrier is erected, and a choice is made.

"Maker's breath! Not only a fool, but not nearly as observant as I just boasted. You must be beyond exhausted." Almost absently he stroked her hair. "You can't go on like this. I promise this will catch up with you sooner, rather than later." It always caught up to him after a few days, when fatigue outweighed the nightmares that were his almost constant evening companions.

"I know. Every inch of me aches from my toes to the points of my ears. I'm so very tired." The confession felt good, as though a slight weight was lifted. "That's why I've gone out to the roof to find peace. Unfortunately it's eluded me. The stars are silent and my thoughts are too loud."

Cullen stopped his gentle brushing, and she looked up at him. She saw the confusion and sympathy on his face, and laughed without humor. "I suppose I sound mad, don't I? Or like Cole."

She moved to get off of her commander's lap, and he hesitated for a brief moment before letting her go. It felt colder without his arms around her.

Rowan put out her hand to him. "My sanity may be salvaged if you come with me for a moment."

He placed his hand in hers. "I think you're perfectly sane, if distraught." His lip curled slightly. "Though a man in the throes of lyrium withdrawal may not be the best to judge such a thing."

Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be pulled from the chair, and didn't relinquish her hand after. If she minded, she didn't say so, and he allowed himself the indulgence of more contact with his Inquisitor. When she finally shook herself from her melancholy, it was likely things would go back to what passed for normal in the middle of the end of the world, and moments with their hands entwined would fade away.

Rowan opened the door to his office and walked out onto the battlements. Still holding onto him, and trembling slightly, she found a spot where they could sit side by side. 

And then she spoke; the lilt in her voice reminded him that she had been raised to be the Keeper of her clan's memories. Storytelling was every bit as much a part of her as the Mark or her powers.

"Once there was a child, who often suffered from nightmares, visions of the Fade that meant one day she'd have powers manifest which would change her fate utterly. But she didn't know this, all she knew was that she'd wake up screaming in the night, alone and drenched in sweat and tears.

"Her father, a kind and gentle man who followed Vir Atish’an of Sylaise, the Healer, knew what this meant for his child. And he may have feared for who she would become, what she would have to face, but he never let it show, never let it cause a ripple in his devotion to her. Instead he would take his crying daughter in his arms and bring her to stand under the stars. 

“There he would sing to her, songs he had gathered from his travels, as he was one of the few who would willingly interact with outsiders. And people, Dalish and otherwise, tended to seek him out for his healing prowess. Some were serious and told her of the woman who gave her life for her god, and some just nonsense songs that told of the exploits of the various races of Thedas, but they brought his daughter comfort and relief when she needed it. In her childlike way, she thought the stars joined their voices to the songs, and though his voice wasn’t the strongest or the purest, it was perfect to her.

"She grew up the better for his gentle worldliness, and to this day listens for the stars to sing to her as they once did, to bring solace to her again, when she feels lost and adrift, and teach her more of the world around her. The man who once set them to singing no longer could, so she seemed to wait in vain."

Tears again. She thought she had been done with them and could go back to being the intractable Inquisitor. But no, they slid down her face once more. And a hard thing started to form inside her.

"Do you know when I truly realized I had a chance at helping stop Corypheus? When you ceased fighting and joined your voices at the camp." She sniffed slightly, letting the tears run unchecked. "It was as though he came back and started the stars singing for me again, like he was telling me to join you instead of running away. It reminded me of who my father was, and what he would have thought to do with the Inquisition. So I stayed, to see his hope have a chance of coming true."

Suddenly, as though a switch had been flipped, that something hard slammed over her heart, guilt and self-loathing barreling their way forward, stealing the emotions she had been reeling from, putting cold and unfeeling truth in their place. She pulled her hand from Cullen's and stood.

"But I've failed him, you see. With those Gods-forsaken letters I have no hope of uniting the Dalish with the Inquisition. I have ashes of a life I used to know, blowing away to mingle with the dust of so many other broken dreams. I have nothing but a set of titles and a mission to fulfill. And that will have to be enough for me."

She tilted her head to the stars, forcing the crying to stop, the tears to dry up and be absorbed into the armor of Inquisitor and Herald. This is what had to be done. Cullen could remember her. She would forget all but the work. "Enough of this. I've taken up too much of your night, Commander. Thank you for indulging your fool of a leader. I'll leave you to your rest. And you won't have any more of these outbursts from me." Solas' way was the better one, where she would win the battles, beat Corypheus, and be the Inquisitor the world could see and never touch. And never hurt.

He had let her hand go when she pulled away, but the solid presence of his being wouldn't let her run away without an assault on the frozen shield that had slid in place. He was a man who had been hurt and betrayed by the world, his companions, and his own body. But he was also a soldier, and he took up arms. 

"This Inquisition doesn't need a figurehead and a title. It doesn't need a nameless battlemage in armored robes. It needs you, Rowan Lavellan. We need you, as you are. And you need them. Us." He made no move toward her; indeed he had stayed sitting on the battlement when she pulled away and made to leave. But she could see he was in position to move if she bolted, the Lion waiting to spring into action. And there was a fight ready behind those eyes. The Inquisitor began her own attack.

"You need a broken shell of a woman, who feels too much and can't keep her own people from loathing her? A knife-eared, bare-faced apostate who falls to the floor weeping because her foolish grief overwhelms her and needs to be coddled like a child? What kind of leader is that?" She let her magic flow over her, bolts dancing along her fingers. The magic sat on the edge of release, power at the ready to strike. "Let me stop feeling, and I can bring them all to heel. Let me lock it all away, and I'll succeed, and bring glory to this mission of ours. Just let me go."

"I can't." It was his turn to stand, and he didn't so much approach as stalk towards her. "Whatever realization you think you've come to, it's the wrong one. I've taken this path, and it will destroy you. You have too much life inside to shut it away. And you're too damnably strong to give up like this." His eyes flashed, and if it hadn't been Cullen, she would have been afraid.

"The only way you fail your father is to stop trying. That's what he told that little girl all those years ago. The nightmares returned, but he kept singing, kept soothing, and made sure you were a woman of compassion, who loved and laughed and cried, who counseled others and asked for help when she needed it. Who returns blankets she thinks might be missed, because it's the right thing to do. He did not raise a statue." She hadn’t moved as he approached her, and he put his hands over hers, a cool tingle meeting the pulsing energy of the lightning on her fingertips, putting out the sparks like extinguishing candles. He tensed, it cost him to do this, but he didn't let go.

"There may not be much left in me, but I'll give all I have, all I am, to keep you from destroying yourself like this." He paused, as though weighing his next words. "You are too important to me to do anything else."

She threw one more volley at him. "As the Inquisitor-"

"No, Maker take it, as a person, a woman, one I care about. And I'm not sorry to admit not in any proper, platonic, we're brothers and sisters in arms sort of way." He threw caution and good proper sense to the wind. Sometimes a head-on charge was the only way.

That wall around her heart cracked. "Oh. Cullen, I-oh Gods and Maker, what's wrong with me?" Fear, overwhelming and vile roared through her and she gagged on it. While she retched, he held her hair back, waiting until the heaving stopped. He'd seen countless soldiers like this the moment when the weight of duty became too much. Hell, he'd been curled up around a bucket more than once as the lyrium worked itself out of him. And before that, when he was a green recruit, and in the circle tower...sometimes your body could no longer handle the horror of responsibility. 

She slumped, and he let her lean against him again. Just that small bit of power he had used had sapped his strength, but he would deal with that later. For now he would play his own role of a Commander with limitless resources. For her.

Silently he handed her the kerchief he kept with him, and the mint candies that had been his own companion of late. She started to apologize, head hanging with shame, but he stopped her. "Exhaustion, fear, rage against injustice. It's taken its toll." He brushed a hand across her cheek. "Sleep will give you a better perspective, and a more settled stomach, I promise you."

"If I could."

"You will. And if you indulge me, I have a possible, if unconventional, idea on that front that came to me as you spoke." He set her away from him. "You can come along, or you can go back to your quarters, as you wish. I will not stop you from making your own choices."

He turned back to his quarters. He wanted to take her hand, guide her, wrap her in layers of protection and care, but she needed to decide on her own that her soul was worth saving. That was something no member of the Inquisition could answer for her.

Rowan stood on the mental precipice. How easy it would be to turn and hide in her quarters, to take the sleeping draught that she had been avoiding, and lose herself in the oblivion of sleep and obligation. She'd forget all but the mission, and if it cost her friends, what of it? They'd leave anyway once this was all over, and she'd be alone again. At least this way it wouldn't hurt.

But the echo of a long-finished song and a pair of fierce amber eyes stopped her feet. She was stronger than the ease of oblivion, would be stronger. Because Cullen was right about these people of Skyhold. 

This was her family, she knew it, and she would guard it as fiercely as she could. There was no question that she would give her life for each and every one of the people that were under her protection. She was their leader, but she was also one of them, and loved them in a way that was new and frightening to her. It was fierce and unrelenting, and any pain they felt was her pain, and any losses they endured were hers. They were everything to her, and to lose a single one, whether in battle or through her own choice of shutting them out would tear at her heart until even Fen’Harel wouldn’t feast on what was left.

How could she give them less than her all? And if her all had to suffer for them, that was the price of love. Her father had taught her that, and her commander had reminded her of the same. No, she wouldn’t, couldn’t shut down. She could be Solas’ fierce warrior-mage, could make the choices and sacrifices and try and save them all, but she would do it as herself, and accept the emotional consequences as well as the physical.

Rowan didn’t know how long she had stood out on the battlements alone, but Cullen had already returned to his offices. He had faith in her, though, and left the door ajar. There was a hesitation before she pushed it open. Having made this choice, she felt raw and vulnerable, and very unsure.

The room was empty.

Her footsteps echoed on the flagstone floor, and she wondered if she had somehow misunderstood, or if she had been outside so long that he had finally given up on her. A thud and muffled “Andraste’s ass,” came from over her head.

“Comm-Cullen?”

“Hang on a moment.” Another bit of banging around. “Alright. Come up.”

She climbed the ladder, at a loss as to what was happening. “What in the Maker and Gods’ names are you doing?”

“Being a dedicated commander.” He sounded a bit winded.

Rowan had toured the entire hold when they had first moved in, and she knew that he had taken rooms above his office. There was an unrepaired gap in his roof, and she would have thought that would make it cold, but the heat rose from below, so that it was surprisingly comfortable. He had positioned his bed under the hole, and was leaning against it, rather heavily she thought. The lack of lyrium was taking its toll, and she knew that his encounter with her this evening hadn’t helped him maintain his strength. He caught her staring, and shook his head. “That is not for you to worry about tonight, and my choices are my own. You can try and fix me after you’ve had some rest, Inquisitor, but not before.”

“Cullen, I-”

“No. No apologies, no guilt, none of that. These are my decisions to make, like it was yours to come here.” He straightened. “Now, if you please, lie down.”

“In your bed.”

“I assure you, your honor is perfectly safe.” He smirked slightly. When he did that, it wasn't her honor she was worried about.

“Oh yes, that was my concern,” she shot back. “Where exactly are you intending to rest? You made no mention of your plan involving you losing sleep for me.”

“I mentioned this was unconventional. Perhaps even unwise. But it’s the only thing I can think of right now to do short of a spell or a drug, which I assume you would have resorted to by now if you had wanted to use either alternative.” She shook her head. “Then, Inquisitor, lie down, if you would.”

She still gave him an incredulous look before she sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled off her boots. "I'm fairly certain doing this is not helping to solidify my sanity in my mind or anyone else’s." But she slid back over the covers, and propped her head on one of the pillows.

He didn't say anything, just took the blanket that had brought her to him in the first place, and laid it over her. The mattress dipped as he moved to her other side. The candles were extinguished, and the only light came from the stars and her hand.

He took that hand in his and massaged short circles in her palm, not shying away from the mark, but not putting undue pressure on it. This was all very nice, but rather useless as far as putting her to sleep. But, it was warm and safe and-

He began to sing. It was slow at first, slightly rough, as though he were hesitant about what he was doing, or afraid of her reaction. The words to a song she remembered from so many years before spilled from his lips. They were verses praising the land, reminding the listener to take time and enjoy the gifts given each day. Simple, and profound.

His voice was true, powerful, though tempered with gentleness fitting the night. She had heard him that night after Haven, but then the song itself had overridden everything else. Now she was wrapped in the warmth of his timbre. 

"I-" he placed a finger to her lips, and shook his head slowly, then gestured up to the ceiling.

She leaned back against the pillows, the Commander still working the knots out of her hand with sure strokes of his thumb over her palm. Her head drifted slowly to his shoulder, and she stared at the stars overhead. They seemed to have once again found their voice, and she smiled slightly. Her eyelids became too heavy, and drifted shut, surrounded by a cocoon of sweet song and heavy wool and gentle strength. 

He finished the last verse, and looked down at his side to where she lay, her eyes closed and her breath evened out. At peace, he could selfishly study her, memorize every freckle. She seemed almost fragile like this, though he had seen her strength as she easily spun staves a foot taller than she was and as thick as her arm when she was casting. She was magnificent, beautiful, in tremendous amounts of pain, but ultimately undefeated. His heart seemed too small for his chest and he forgot to breathe as he grasped the enormity of his feelings.

Finally, worn out by his own overexertion, he slept, nightmares blessedly at bay, so that he wouldn't disturb her long-overdue rest. Their hands stayed entwined, the glow of her Mark dimmed between their palms. The stars, silent for the evening after doing their part, made their journey toward dawn.

\--------

From his self-imposed prison of red, the Elder One, whose true name had been lost to all but the most ancient and obscure of tomes, looked up at the stars. Distantly, he remembered they had once held meaning for him. A woman...she had loved the stars. And she had loved...someone. Not him, because she did not know him. There was no love in Corypheus. He had been born of that name and erased all previous trace of the shell that had been before. She was part of that shell, and he brushed her away, giving no thought to the curious twinge in his chest when he pictured her face laughing under the twinkling night sky.


	6. The Dreamcrossed Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality exists in many forms, and a stalwart comander feels trapped by his. An old man dreams of what cannot be.

Time had no meaning here. She could have been humming to herself for minutes or years; it was of no consequence. Moment slid into moment, and there was no need for rest. The Black City hovered above somewhere, but it meant little. It was no place she desired to go, she had no curiosity about it, especially when it was so pleasant down below.

Currently her surroundings were a meadow, some amalgamation of the ones that she had run to so often as both a child and adult, when the oppressive weight of her clan and her responsibilities became too much. It was peaceful, a secret lush paradise with a bubbling stream and cool breezes that barely rustled the grass she was laying on.

Odd statues lined the area, unique versions of the representations of the pantheon. Falon'Din's harbinger carried a skull in its talons. Andruil's hawk snared her rabbit. And Mythal...she was resplendent, half fierce elvhen woman, half dragon, with a cocky grin and her hands outstretched while her torso ended in scales and claws, and wings sprouted from her back. 

Next to her stood Andraste, a much more...approachable figure than most of the statues of her. She was beautiful, with long hair (perfectly in place, Rowan noted absently) and a sad smile. She wore armor, but when studied, the plates seemed to be made of curling flames that engulfed her as surely as any pyre. In one hand she carried a sword, and the other rested on the head of a halla. She wore two wedding rings.

Still separated from the others was Fen'Harel, looking much the same but for the ball in his mouth. No, not a ball, an orb, much like the one Corypheus had been holding in Haven. She wouldn't be surprised if the Dread Wolf had lost his toy and that was how this whole mess came about. It made her chuckle, a little darkly, to think the end of the world being brought about by a plaything.

All the while, wisps of the Fade spun around her, and remnants of thoughts and memories drifted by like dandelion fluff on the wind. She knew why Solas found this place irresistible, found it a comfort and joy. It was as though every breath released pushed aside a small part of the Veil, and things long buried laid themselves out before her. Sometimes it helped, sometimes hurt, but it was endlessly fascinating. She never wanted to leave. Rowan put out a hand and touched a moment from her past, actually held it in her hands. Miraculous.

\-------

Cullen had woken the next day, extremely late by his standards, which meant the sun was shining and not just hinting at coming up over the Frostbacks. She was lying half on top of him, slender hand still clasped in his. Or at least he thought so. He actually couldn't feel his arm anymore. Which for a soldier was somewhat disconcerting, and for a man was downright uncomfortable.

He was loath to disturb her, however, and since it wasn't going to fall any more asleep, he took a moment to relish the fact that this woman of extraordinary powers and responsibilities trusted him enough to see her like this. "This" involved her sprawled across the mattress and his right side in almost equal parts, long hair fanned out around her in a way that would undoubtedly make it look rather like a rat's nest when she woke up. She would not be pleased, but he found it charming. He knew that he was much too far gone in his affections, and it was not normal to be enamored by the messy hair of the Inquisitor. But he frankly didn't care about normalcy. Normal would be not having a power-hungry man-god constructed of red lyrium trying to rule the world. So, to the Void with that.

He wanted to let her rest as long as possible, so he gently extricated himself from her clutches. She didn’t stir, which he thought was slightly odd, but he figured exhaustion had driven her deeper into sleep. Looking down, he realized that he was in the unenviable position of having to either change in front of her or wear the same clothing he had on the day before. Neither was a preferred choice, but fastidiousness won out over modesty. He still moved to stand in the shadows, to offer himself as much privacy as possible. He didn’t contemplate what would happen if she woke up and found him in a state of undress. He most certainly didn’t think about what would happen if she somehow approved. No, that was unworthy of him and most certainly not swirling around in his mind, threatening to be a distraction throughout the day.

When he returned to his quarters, he expected to find her gone. Instead, she was in the same position he had left her in. This concerned him, as did his inability to wake her no matter how loudly he spoke to her, or how he shook her shoulder. 

Finally, he called for the surgeon, who, after looking at him askance for having the Inquisitor in his bed, declared that she was fine, though a leeching couldn't hurt anything. Cullen declined on her behalf.

He then approached Solas, somewhat reluctantly, because the elf had filled Rowan’s head with nonsense about her role as Inquisitor and trivializing her family's behavior as something that should be beneath her notice. He would have preferred the more amicable Tevinter mage, a phrase he never thought he would find himself using, but Dorian wasn’t the expert in the Fade that the elven apostate was.

"I would not worry, Commander. Her lack of sleep has likely driven her deeper into the Fade than normal. If this continues, then there will be cause for concern. It does occur with mages, surely you would know that from your time in the Order?" There was malice underlying his words, but his expression never changed. 

"My time in the Templars was...unusual. I haven’t spent a great deal of time around the mages in the Circle towers directly in over a decade." Cullen tried again. "Is there a way you can...reach out to her, check on her in the Fade to make sure that she is well?"

Solas looked at him as though he was a small and simple child. "I could. And it would tell me that she was asleep and dreaming. Beyond that, she would have to invite me in to her dreams to glean any information. I would not wish to invade her privacy over a vague sense of worry."

"So you'll do nothing."

"No, Commander. I will do as you have asked. I simply wanted to point out the foolishness of your request, and emphasize that the Inquisitor is a formidable mage in her own right, who can certainly handle some time deeper in the Fade than those without her skill set."

Cullen bristled at his words. "You are a member of this Inquisition by your own choice, and a member of the Inquisitor's inner circle because she trusts you. I am attempting to extend you the same courtesy. Please inform me of anything you find out about her situation." He turned on his heel and left before he ended up losing his temper and did something satisfyingly violent he'd inevitably regret. Eventually.

\-------

Solas would not be sharing with the Commander that he watched her every night in the Fade. She was a creature of intelligence, and the grace that her own self-doubt kept her from achieving in the waking world was like a second skin for her there. He couldn't stay away from her. He never approached, because he didn't trust himself to not do or say something that he couldn’t take back.

She was living joy, and he was drawn to her like a man dying of thirst . But he refused to drink from her, take from her any more than he already had. He was unworthy of her affection, and unable to reciprocate in any way that was lasting. There was a role he was playing, and she was a means to an end. 

An elegant, intriguing means that made his ancient heart ache in a way he didn't think was possible. And Solas admitted to himself that he loathed the Commander because he could give and receive love without limitation. And Rowan would want Cullen's love to the exclusivity of others. He believed that; he had to, or he would shatter.

But he waited in the Fade, and watched, tail curled around him, his heart absorbing her every movement and sound. He continued his descent into self-denial.


	7. The Spaces of The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend is greeted as new, and Sera contemplates mortality in her own way.

She had been dreaming of her family, altered memories of the life she once had. Instead of the fear and barely-concealed hostility of reality, here they saw the wisdom of her plans. They invited her to tell the stories of their people, and the people beyond the Dales, and listened with wrapped attention as she spun the tales she had gathered from somewhere, tales of Tevinter and the Qun, Here they treated her father kindly, and not as the strange one they begrudgingly let heal them, who with shem-like ideas had raised a daughter that rejected so much of who they were. That's how she still knew she was dreaming.

That, and the wolf that had shown up somewhere along the way.

It had lingered on the edges of her Fade life, flitting in and out of her consciousness.  It observed from afar, though she wasn’t sure if she was an oddity, or prey.  She didn’t feel threatened, however.  Far from it.  He became a common presence as she played through the scenes of her life she was taking the opportunity to restructure to her satisfaction.  She had a feeling he was watching, studying her. 

\---------

Sera set the kitchen on fire when she found out there was something wrong with Rowan.  “Bit a spark’ll wake her elfyness up.”  Of course, this led to the cook threatening to quit and take her recipes with her, which would have sent up a general distress signal among the recruits.  An army marched on its stomach, and it marched better when the food was the quality that the acerbic old bat could whip up even in a ruined castle in a remote mountain pass.  Her pancakes were things of legend.  Maryden had composed no less than three songs praising their glory.  Unfortunately, upon hearing them, most of the diners lost their desire for pancakes.  Or food.

Josephine, meanwhile, pondered the most discreet way she could dump the elf off the side of the battlements without anyone being the wiser.  She was a diplomat, but there were some problems even she couldn’t solve without drawing blood.  Putting a stop to Sera’s particular brand of therapy was one of them.

“Sera, this must stop.”

“What must, Ruffly-bits?”

“You are upset by our Inquisitor’s. . .illness, as are we all, but you can’t set the kitchens on fire.  Or the barns.  You cannot set anything on fire.”

The elf looked confused. “What if it works, eh? She's an ice mage, yeah? So what if flame makes ‘er elfishassness get out o’bed and start bashin’ Coryphenuts again? Then won’t you look a fool? Like, you forgot your breeches at one o’ your stuffy speeches, yeah? Heh, speeches and breeches. Not that I’d mind you without your breeches.” She quirked a smile and Josephine blushed.

“Yes, well.  Please, no more fires, Sera.  Maybe. . .go see her instead.  Tell her you want to get back to ‘bashin’ Coryphenuts’ as you put it.”

“Go see her? She’s in bed, right?  Fat lot of good that’ll do.”  She sighed.  “A good fire helps almost everything, but no, can’t have that.  Might get someone’s knickers in a bunch.”  She sighed loudly.  “Fine, I’ll go stare at ‘er and see if that works.  Such a better solution." Sera spun on her heel and contemplated the most creative way to get into the Jackboot's quarters at a time that would be both inconvenient and disruptive enough to get the stupid elfy Heraldy one out of bed and back to kicking the asses that needed to be. Sera dealt with fear and worry in her singular way.

\---------

For now, she was alone.  Or almost.  It was still there in the distance, dancing around her peripheral vision.  Pacing and agitated. Finally the distraction had become too much, taking her away from making memories, and she beckoned it.

With hesitant steps it approached her; a magnificent beast with fur the color of shadows and ice-blue eyes.  It nonetheless seemed almost afraid. She lowered herself to his level, and put out her hand. Her left one, which glowed and pulsed brightly here, grabbed his attention. He stared at it for a moment, entranced, before swiping his tongue over the light like it was a treat she held out for him.  

The Mark sparked and flared, and she cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain, the sensation knocking her to her knees. Waves of sensation trembled through her, shooting up her arm to seemingly every nerve ending. " _Fenedhis_!" she gasped. When the fog of pain behind her eyes cleared, she looked over at the wolf.

If an animal could look shocked, this one did. Its eyes were wide and its chest heaving, as though it had just run the length of the Fade.  She reached out a hand, her right this time, and he skittered away.

"No, don't leave! Please," she implored the wolf. "You didn't mean for that to happen. At least I hope not." He whined in response.  "It's okay. I'm okay."  She looked over at the green glow of her palm, and an aftershock shuddered through her. "So that's a new trick." She sat up slowly, so as not to startle the creature away. "I don't think I like that side effect."

Rowan took a moment to compose herself, and then turned to her guest. “Now Fen," she said, patting the ground, "I'm not going to hurt you, you're not going to hurt me, I don't believe, and I could use some companionship. It does get lonely here."

Tentatively the wolf made its way back to her side, sitting on its haunches just inside her reach. She noticed he stayed on her right. "Intelligent wolf. You remind me of someone back home." Gently, she ran her hands through his pelt, the the thick softness sliding over her skin, grounding her a bit more to herself. It was a comforting sensation, almost familiar to her, though she didn't make a habit of petting wild animals as a rule.

He let out a noise like a sigh.  “You feel...more real, if that makes any sense.” She breathed deeply.  “Oh, that’s why.  You have a scent.” The wolf growled low in his throat.  “I didn’t say you _smelled_ , Fen, just that you have a smell, like wet leaves in the fall, or some kind of exotic spicy tea. You’re more than the shadows and memories here.  I didn’t know that wolves dreamed, but you must to be here.”

She didn't need a fire here; didn't need to eat or drink, but a fire sprang up in front of them, and a roasted fennec was suddenly spread out in front of her. Rowan stared at it for a moment, then looked down at her companion. "Okay, Wolf. Let's feast, and maybe you'll spill some of your secrets. Or maybe you'll disappear. Either way, do you like light meat or dark?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shortish chapter, but there will be a bonus one this coming week. The exploration of the Fade and its wonders and dangers was just too much for me to pass up. And Sera was getting testy. :)


	8. A Crowd Of Twisted Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fade is pervasive and invasive, and if you stand still long enough, it will break your heart. A confrontation, and an invitation.

A new memory separated itself from the rest, and she watched it form and take shape, and she gasped. Her father separated from the camp where they were toasting his accomplishments as Sylaise’s representative, and he came to her smiling. Gone were the bruises under his eyes from the strain of working as an anathema among his family. He was hale and strong again, smiling at her, at her, the way he used to. 

“My precious Da’len. Thank you for everything. Having the city elves invited to the Arlathvhen is a wonderful step. And bringing in observers from outside the People may be just the catalyst we need to move toward a lasting peace.” He embraced her, his arms around her again just like when she was a child, and she wanted to cry, though in the Fade, oddly, the tears wouldn’t come. In that moment, all of the fear and worry and inadequacy washed away, and she felt...peace. Contentment.

“Babae, 'ma vhen'an.” She knew, in some small part of her heart, that it was the Fade, knew it wasn’t real, but she needed this, needed her father as more than just a memory for a moment. And its reality didn’t matter. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I need to get back to my work, child, and I know that the Keeper wanted to speak with you.” He smiled, and her heart was filled with light. “Soon you’ll have that title; it’s been waiting for you. Then we’ll have the celebration you deserve as you take your place with us.”

“It’ll be good to come home.” Why did that sound a bit hollow to her ears? She shook her head slightly to rid herself of the doubt. It would be good, to have her clan embracing her as one of their own. It’s what she always wanted, to be accepted by them, to belong to something. And now she was being given the opportunity to make it right, to start new and fresh.

“It will, Da’len. And I’ll be waiting for you.” He turned back to the fire and disappeared through the veil that normally separated her from her reenacted memories. This time, however, the barrier seemed thinner, beckoned her. With fading thoughts of life on the waking side, she stepped through, the wolf slipping beside her, a shadow as he followed.

\----------

Varric was pissed. His favorite elven Inquisitor was in some mystical coma, and the entire Inquisition was very slowly losing its mind in an attempt to retain some semblance of normalcy. It was only a matter of time until the cracks started to show to those outside the ‘trust circle,’ as he had taken to calling it. It was time for a gesture that was drastic and dramatic, something that could backfire horribly even with the noblest of intentions behind it. Something had to be done, and he while he appreciated Sera’s...creative.approach, it had to be something that would unite them should the worst happen. Even uniting in hatred of him would be worth it if it kept them together.

So, the author did what he did best. He put pen to paper. He had hesitated for so long, not wanting to break the trust that she had put in him. He had wanted to give her a break from the insanity, to come down from the shitstorm that was Kirkwall and the nightmare that was Anders. But now he didn’t have a choice. Putting a woman he-putting a friend in danger, he self-edited, was not big on his list of ‘Things I’d like to do today.’ In fact, he’d much rather have been stuck in a sensitive place with the pointy end of Bianca than write the letter he did. But Andraste’s tits, doing the right thing had to happen. No matter how much it felt like opening up a healing wound on his heart.

‘H-

So, you know how I promised I’d leave you out of this ‘giant hole in the world’ business I’ve gotten sucked into? Well, apparently my promises are worth a nug’s ass.

We have a couple of problems, and frankly there’s no one I trust more with the weird shit than you. And no, I have no idea if that’s a compliment. Just bear with me.

Remember our dead friend Corypheus? Well, he’s not as dead as his rotting corpse led us to believe, and he’s the one who decided to tear a hole in the Veil. And no, I don’t know why. Why do insanely powerful villains do any of the things they do?

Oh, and our Inquisitor is down for the count at the moment, did I happen to mention that? Some kind of mystical coma, and no one’s sure when or if she’s coming out of it. Want to rent a slightly used title to add to the collection?

Once you’re done cursing my ass, just get your shapely one to Skyhold. You can vent your frustrations in person. 

There’s a Seeker here that likes me about as much as you probably do right now. You can swap “Varric is such an ass” tales. She’ll like you. She’ll kill me once you show up.

See? There are perks to this gig. And not just seeing my handsome face every day.

You still owe me for that last round of Grace, anyway. I’m calling in my chip.

And Marian? Don’t die.

-V’

He sighed, rolled up the parchment, and grabbed a messenger. “We didn’t have this conversation, you don’t have this letter, and it’s not going to this location. But if it doesn’t get where it’s supposed to go, your job is the least of your problems, understood?” He looked pointedly at Bianca. The terrified page nodded silently, took the letter and the coin purse handed to him, and bolted. It would likely arrive in record time.

He needed a bottle. Two, if the arguing from the rotunda was any indication. He pulled the good stuff out, thought better of it, and smiled a bit wickedly as he picked his poison for the two alpha males circling each other in the next room.

\---------

She’d been unconscious for six days and didn’t show signs of returning to them anytime soon. He was terrified for her, so he thought he’d have it out with the accursed elf once and for all, try and shake him out of his fugue state and put him to work bringing her back. 

The Lion and the Wolf stared at each other; two hunters vying for dominance. "Have you spent so much time up the ass end of the Fade that you've forgotten how to live in this world?" Cullen was sure the entire tower could hear him, but he didn't care. Wise inhabitants should have fled at the sight of the irate commander. "You do understand that people do not simply shake things off and move on. Not if they have any compassion in them. And she has enough for an army."

"I know." The words were quiet, but not gentle. "I know the hell she walks through, losing her people to their own blindness and stupidity. I know she feels she has failed them. And I know that if she continues down this path of self-doubt that it will be the destruction not just of her, but of all of us. Perhaps that is truly why she is hiding in the Fade, so that she won’t be able to fail us, in her eyes." He sighed. “I have seen her, from a distance, as I dream. She is there, but I cannot approach her. She seems. . .unharmed. That is all I’ve been able to determine.”

“You’ve seen her, and you haven’t seen fit to mention this to me, as I requested?” Cullen was contemplating whether strangulation was sufficient enough punishment.

“There is nothing more to tell than that, Commander. I can see her, but not touch her. I do not know what she is doing, if she is being held against her will, though it does not seem to be so. I will continue to watch her, and I will intervene if I can, try and bring her back, but it is not that simple.” He looked at Cullen, eyes flashing. “It is not as though I have not tried to return her to. . .us.”

Realization dawned on the ex-Templar, as though a curtain had been drawn back. "She believes that you don't care about her," he said slowly. Solas' eyes widened slightly at that. "I think we both know that's untrue."

"She doesn't...she does not engender casual emotions from people," he said carefully.

"No. She does not. Nor does she deserve to think so."

"I cannot be what she needs or wants. I briefly tried, like a fool, and it has come to nothing but hurt for her already." The normally placid elf was struggling with maintaining his calm facade. "I will not give her less than she deserves, so I have removed myself from consideration for anything more than a companion. No matter how I may wish that were not so."

"You're bowing out of contention is what you're saying. You understand she has her own mind and can make her own decisions, without trying to make them for her."

He laughed slightly at that. "Without question. And I believe she would find all manner of merciless torture if she thought she was being told otherwise." He sighed, and looked much older for a moment. "In the end she would choose you, regardless of me. I'm just making the path clearer. It's the least I can do for her."

"You could be honest with her. Let her come to her own conclusions. You could respect her that much." Fire met ice as their eyes clashed. "You could tell her that you love her."

"Not as you do. You love her with surety of who you are and your place in the world. I...cannot. Let us leave it at that." The ice cracked. "Please."

Cullen heard the wildness in his voice, and understood in that moment what Rowan meant about a wounded animal. He nodded. "As you wish. But Solas, remember that you love her, so be her friend, her family. She's the Inquisitor, but she is so much more."

"She is. And Commander, do not doubt that I will remember how I feel if you cause her pain. I may forget instead that I value a rational approach to conflict." The predator was back in play.

"Of course. I would expect nothing less." His eyes hardened. "And expect no less than the full wrath of my being if you do likewise."

"If the two of you are through with all the measuring, I think it's time to drink to the end of an angst-ridden pissing contest." Varric stood at the door to the tower, glasses in hand and a bottle under his arm.

Without an invitation, the dwarf set up the three glasses on Solas' table, avoiding the books out of respect to their authors, but pushing aside any other apparatus that was in the way. The two men just watched as the third poured generous servings in each, took up one, and waited for the others to do the same. "To conflict resolution, and mutual understanding." He raised his glass and drank deeply. The others did the same, grimacing at what was surely some Rivaini rotgut Varric had smuggled from Kirkwall. "And Curly, Chuckles? You won't have to worry about each other. Bianca and I will end you if you hurt her." 

The other two stared at him. "Just because she's not my love story doesn't mean she's not family. Get her ass out of the Fade, and make sure she doesn’t die while you do it." He took another drink, finishing the glass, and then turned to leave. "Enjoy the bottle, you both need it. I've got a publisher to harass and people to annoy."

The door closed behind him, and two of the brightest minds of the Inquisition were struck dumb. Finally Cullen broke the silence. "It's truly awful."

"Atrocious."

"Another?"

"He did say it was a gift."

An uneasy truce was struck by the by the bottom of the bottle, both parties leaving the table both unsteadily and with a quiet appreciation for the other's depth of feeling for the same woman. 

Solas made a promise, slurred as it was, that he would try harder to reach her in the Fade, and Cullen would guard her in Skyhold, possibly from his offices until he sobered up enough to climb his ladder. And between the two of them, they would return her to her place in the world, kicking and screaming if they had to.

\---------

She was listening as a dwarf who had joined the Clan's camp was regaling them with stories. He reminded her of someone, a friend, perhaps. The memory was vague.

Her wolf had come and gone as the scenes changed, but she had no idea how long he stayed away. Life, such as it was, flowed effortlessly around her, and she had no desire to stop it, or change, or really do anything but exist in this glade with her beloved family. Nothing and no one else mattered.

At the moment, her wolf rested his head on her lap and she scratched his ears. He heaved a bit of a sigh, and she laughed. "Does his story not interest you, Da'fen? Why don't you stand up and tell one?"

The air pulsed, and a stranger lay where her wolf had been. An elf, like her, but bare-headed and with her Fen's eyes. Her hand still rested on his head, and she drew it away slowly, fingertips lingering on his skin. He shifted positions and sat up. "Lethal’lan, you are incredibly difficult to steer in any direction but your own." 

"Are we kin? I feel like I should know you, as any who can shift as you can is worthy of note." His eyes. They were familiar, like something in a dream, but it was too much effort to try and decipher where she had seen him. 

"More than kin, 'ma falon...no, here you are 'ma vhen'an, and we can argue those ramifications later. But you need truth to free you from this place."

"Vhen-sir, I think you have me confused with someone else. Though I'm quite flattered, of course." She was already turning back to the fire when he hauled her bodily from the ground.

"Enough of this. I have waited patiently for you to find your way home to us. I have watched you slip further and further into this nothingness of false memories. No more." The air around him crackled, and figures appeared out of the darkness. 

"Have you forgotten all of us, you friends and allies, those who wait for you to give us direction? Rogues and warriors, mages and diplomats, we need you back. I need you back," he said, his voice harsh.

His words echoed someone else's, and she looked at the image of the golden-eyed man he had summoned. "Cullen." The name slipped from her lips. "Varric, Dorian, Cassandra," and she continued a litany of names to go with the faces of those she had forgotten. "And you. Solas. But you're not fully him, are you?" She glanced over at the wolf statue. "You're something else." Her eyes met his as they flashed with wildness. "Use that something else and save the world. I'm fine here." She moved to turn back to her camp, but he stood in front of her and grabbed her upper arms.

He dismissed the figures with a flick of his hand "Rowan, you cannot stay here. Your life is with the living and with a family you have gathered and a man you are learning to love." He looked at her again, and thought of her increased lethargy while he'd been watching her. His eyes narrowed and he turned to look at the camp, keeping her shielded behind him.

"Come out from where you're hiding! I know you're here." His magic was the wildness of nature, smelling of dead leaves and spring rain, flames and blood. It filled her nostrils as he cast. 

"What are you doing, there's nothing here to-" she stopped as her father stood from his place by the fire and approached them. 

"Da'len, who is your friend? He should join us." He turned to Solas. "Truly, you can find peace here." The elf stepped back as he reached out a hand.

"No. You are subtle, but you look like nothing so much as a monster in a loved one's skin."

"Solas...please. This is my father. He's been waiting for me, and we're planning great things." Her eyes, too large and slightly glazed, were the only things that kept him from giving in to the plea in her voice.

"No, vhen'an, your father is gone. He died, long ago. This is a demon wearing his form, keeping you from us. From your people in Skyhold, from one who loves you deeply, and one who wishes he could do the same." She was shaking her head and walking backwards. "Forgive me for this, and so many other things," he said, before snatching up her marked hand and pouring magic into the pulsing glow.

Pain had her screaming, trying to rip her hand away, to run, anything but take more of the agony that was tearing apart her arm. 

Through the white-hot misery, she heard another cry as her father doubled over. She saw, for a moment, the grotesque form of a sloth demon in his place. It was only an instant, but it was enough as her vision cleared.

Solas sensed the change and dropped her hand, turning back to his adversary. "Let her go."

"She is mine. You shall never have her back for your Inquisition. She is happy here, content to never leave her fa-" a bolt of ice exploded out of his chest, and his shock was evident as he hit the ground and slumped over.

Rowan, walked over to the body which was already turning into its demonic form. "I will not fail you again, Papae," she said, and kicked the corpse viciously. She would have continued to do so if Solas hadn't put his hand on her shoulder. "None of this was real. Except for you." She turned to face him. "Thank you, Solas, 'ma fen." 

Her eyes were back to their normal fathoms-deep blue, that saw so much and tried to pull your fears and secrets out into the light. She was as much a follower of Sylaise as her father, but where he tended wounds, she healed the soul. He wanted so much to...he wanted so much. She rested her injured hand on his chest, and he absently went about dispelling the pain from her. "Rowan, I-"

"I know, Lethal'lin. You need to take this all away from me. I'm sorry you can't trust me enough to tell me what in the Gods and Maker is going on. I also know that I will find out, and I will not be happy. I may not be able to look past the betrayal on the other side." Her eyes narrowed. "I will be persistent, and you will not escape me. I will hunt you and the truth. You saved me, and I want to do the same for you."

"You cannot, but ar lath, 'ma vhen'an, for trying."

She stretched up slightly and brushed her lips against his. "The Lion is my destiny, and my heart has woken to his song, but there will always be a corner for the secretive Wolf in the wildness of my soul."

His eyes were infinitely sad as he brushed his hand over her hair. "I wish I did not have to do this."

"Then don't. You can tell me the truth, make all of this make sense. You will not forgive yourself for your choices."

"I know, but I am too much of a coward to do otherwise." He kissed her brow, and his magic wrapped around her like a pelt. "Forget, and come back to us." As he said the words, and the Fade dissipated, his heart broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I promised you a longer chapter. ;)


	9. The Morning Comes to Consciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are released from the Fade, and time means different things to different people. And truly, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Morning came. At least, she thought it was morning. The hole in Cullen's roof didn't allow for much speculation of the sun's position. 

Cullen's roof. "Maker's...something blasphemous."

Rowan grunted and looked around. The Commander wasn't by her side anymore, and her clothes and, Gods, her hair were more than slightly askew.

Before she made a move to pry herself from the bed, she took stock of herself. Her mouth felt like cotton had been stuffed in it, and there was a taste of used magic on her tongue, like a sugar coating, her eyes were thick with grit, but otherwise she felt...good. Better than she had in days. In longer than that, really.

Testing her limbs, the jittery, edgy tingling she had been experiencing was gone, and the urge to run had left her. Everything felt...relaxed. It was a foreign concept to someone whose whole life had been lived on the edge. She was always afraid or in danger or wary. But this moment was peacef-

"Hello Lethal’lan."

She shot up, and saw that Solas was sitting in a chair that had come from...somewhere. "What are you-why are you in the Commander's bedroom?"

"While I could point out that you could be asked the same question," he said without a hint of sarcasm, though she felt still that he was laughing at her, "I will ignore that point. I'm here because the Commander was worried for you, but couldn’t keep his vigil today."

"Worried? Vigil? I was sleeping. I had thought that was the point of-" Solas held up a hand. 

"You've been asleep for days, Da'len. You’ve been unresponsive, even when there was quite a bit of disturbance."

"Disturbance?" Her entire morning seemed to be filled with one word questions. 

"Sera," he said, and she knew enough. 

"Days? I’ve been out for days?" Rowan slung her legs over the bed and stood, but after lying for so long, she was dizzy and stumbled. The Wolf was at her side instantly, and sat her back down. 

"Slowly, Lethal'lan. You've been through quite an ordeal. You were attacked by a sloth demon, I suspect part of Corypheus' legion. You don't remember?" She shook her head slowly. "I am not entirely surprised. It was not easy to help break you from it. I suspect that in pulling you from its grip, it affected your memory."

"Can you tell me what happened?" She racked her brain for any remnant, but her mind was blank. 

"The entire situation was very hazy, even for someone schooled in the Fade as I am. I do know that you were able to overcome its hold on you, with a reminder of your place outside of the realm of dreams and spirits."

The other thing he said registered. She looked up at him. "You came for me."

He looked slightly abashed. "How could I not? Though I know that I have been distant and distracted of late. I am sorry that I have made you doubt my dedication to you, not just the Inquisition and your mission. I hope that I have not broken your trust in me, that I am your friend, as well as your ally. I will see this through with you, at your side, if you will have me." His eyes held that oceans-deep sorrow again.

She took his hand, and smiled gently at his apology, which still somehow succeeded in sounding like a lecture. "You are my People. There's no escaping me. You may not always be what I expect, but I need you, your knowledge, and your presence." She put her other hand on his cheek. She thought he leaned into her touch slightly. "And I hope you know, family helps one another. I want to take the sadness from you, if I can. Please. Talk to me...maybe not now, but someday soon. You can trust me with your secrets, and I will guard them with my life."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "I will...remember. And I will try. For you."

"Try for you, Solas. You deserve happiness."

"What I deserve...." He sighed, and opened his eyes, the sadness still there, but somewhat tempered by the reason he seemed to use as a shield. "Thank you." He squeezed her hand. "But please, let us get you reoriented to the waking world first."

He helped her to stand, waited to be sure she was steady on her feet, and went before her as she climbed down the ladder. She seemed fine after the initial couple of minutes; no lasting effects of her ordeal were apparent. 

"I suspect that you would like to head back to your quarters, but I would recommend you let at least one person know you've returned to the waking world."

Cullen. The thought of him worrying over her, golden eyes weighted down with grief.... "Damn. Where is he?"

"There was some unrest with the troops. He's likely with them still, or making his way back here. I would hurry. Word of your awakening will spread quickly, even without my help."

Impulsively she hugged him, and pressed her lips to his cheek. "Ma serranas, 'ma falon. You have saved me again."

"Ma'nehn, 'ma-'ma falon." His voice was ragged on that last part, and as Rowan pulled back, she saw that deep sorrow once more. 

"Someday, and soon, my friend. There will be no rift, no tea, just you and me, and an unburdening of your troubles." 

"You're indomitable, aren't you?" He stepped away from her, heading for the door that led to his sanctuary. 

"I definitely haven’t felt that way, not lately. So hearing that is most definitely a compliment.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “Until later, Lethal'lin. As I said, there's no escape for you."

She moved swiftly through the door before he could comment further. "You're an old fool," he told himself viciously. Still, he watched her leave, wanting to pursue her to the ends of Thedas. And cursing the lies he had to live and the life he couldn't lead.

\---------  


Solas had practically thrown him bodily from his chambers when news came of the latest round of idiocy. "Commander. I will stay with her. She will be safe with me. I pledge my life on it. She would want you fixing these issues, not wasting away at her bedside. In fact, I suspect she'd be angered by "the fuss," as she would call it." 

He had likely been too hard on the troops, but by Andraste’s grace, they weren't listening. The mages and what Templars had come to their side were still infighting, and the Inquisitor's missing presence was adding strain to the already tense situation. 

Finally, he, Dorian, and Bull had intervened, the two shooting barbed comments at each other all the way down to the practice field. Cullen was a soldier, had been since his youth, but even he hadn’t heard some of the insults about men's genitalia. What they came up with made him blanche at the implications. 

They were on edge, too. They knew of Rowan's condition, and felt just as helpless against an invisible attacker as he. So, they vented at each other. Fortunately they contained themselves before coming to the soldiers. They had jumped at the chance to do something that wasn't waiting, worrying, and getting on the last nerve of every worker and patron at the pub. And though they took particular pleasure in getting under one another's skin, they were a formidable tandem. 

"You will work together on and off the field, or you will assist the kitchen staff. If that does not suit you, you can train under Seeker Pentaghast." There was a visible stilling of the group. 

"You've spent enough of your time fighting each other; it's time you learned to fight with one another." He moved to the side so Dorian and the Bull could have the full range of the training ground. 

"The Iron Bull and Altus Pavus will be your models, your instructors, and I have their promise, your worst nightmares if you don’t comply. I'm not asking you to be friends; I'm telling you you are comrades in arms, and you are the salvation or destruction of the person standing next to you. Their lives are tied to yours, and you are all here to fight for the freedom of Thedas and all of its inhabitants, no matter race or creed. Your Inquisitor who you have pledged to serve, told you this. Honor your oath to her, and to each other. Bull, Dorian, I give you your troops." 

The speech had worn him out; he'd slept little between the nightmares and the constant fear that Rowan would slip away when he closed his eyes for a moment. The only thing that could have pulled him from her side was a dire situation like the one with the troops. He thanked the Maker that he didn’t have to participate in the drills. He barely had the energy to wear his armor, let alone lift a sword for battle. 

For a few moments he watched the dance being performed in front of him. Bull and Dorian wove in and out of each other's space, casting and attacking with a deadly grace that had his troops staring wide-eyed at the pair. The mage wove a tapestry of spell work around Bull as he faced the practice dummy head-on, before rolling right and slicing through its neck, a second before lightning struck through its center and burst into flames. 

Finally, he had delayed as long as he could stand before heading back to her. Solas had been right about leaving, which made it all the more irritating. His heavy footfalls echoed along the battlements as he wearily trod back to continue his vigil. The elf likely still wouldn’t be pleased at his return, but there was only so much he could do. He had taken his fears and foul temper and feeling of weakness and did something constructive. 

He would rather have punched something. Something large and heavy and preferably demonic. 

Like the sloth demon who was holding her- 

"Hello Commander." 

He was seeing things, now, because she was coming up to him, hair tousled, sleep still etched across her face, generally unkempt, and he had never seen anything more alluring. "Inquisitor?" 

"You seem unsure." She quirked a smile at him, and he was ruined. 

"Maker, I-Andraste's...you're real. Not a dream, I haven't fallen asleep at the training grounds?" He reached out, almost afraid to touch her. 

"Very real, as far as I can tell." She stepped closer to him, met his eyes, took his hands in hers. "I'm sorry." 

"Why are you apologizing to me?" His whole body thrummed with exhaustion. If he had looked tired before, it was a prelude to his appearance now. 

"Because, intentionally or not, I abandoned all of you. I feel as though an evening has passed, and for you it's been-what? Days, a week, I don't know." 

"Eight days," he said. "I thought I had lost you," he said roughly, voice thick with emotion. "And here you are, looking hale and healthy and ready to conquer the world." His hands squeezed around hers. 

"I'd like to at least catch a bath and run a brush through my hair before considering any conquering. After that, yes, if you would like to overrun part of Ferelden, I would be happy to." She smiled up at him, and the world was put to rights with her grin. 

"I will follow you to the end of Thedas." The seriousness in his voice turned her eyes soft, and before she could come back with a quip that would make him laugh and steal away the moment, he took his hand from hers and tilted her head so that he could- 

"Commander. I have-" 

"What?" He growled at the hapless messenger, and Rowan held in a laugh at the expression of the poor man who had made her Lion snarl. And she thrilled at the moment that had almost occurred. No matter that it was interrupted, that the moment had passed, the possibility had been there, and her heart was light. 

When he turned back to her, her smile was just as bright. "Well, that was exceptionally bad timing-" she saw the predatory gleam an instant before he claimed her lips with his. 

The whole world burst into song at certain moments, her father had told her once. You need only find those times when joy was at its peak and listen. As Cullen's kiss deepened and she opened her mouth to allow her tongue to tangle with his, her ears filled with music. Her hands had found his hair and her fingers stroked through the curls, tousling them, and few things had ever felt so simply right. 

He pulled her close, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other cradling her head as he lost himself to the taste of her. She was like drinking in sunshine, a balm to his frayed nerves, and a reenergizing jolt to his exhausted body. He hummed contentedly as his mouth slid over hers again and again. He wanted to fill himself with her, wrap himself in her being, and every sentimental sappy cliche that Cassandra's not so secret romance obsession spoke of. 

Reluctantly they pulled away to catch their breaths. He rested his forehead on hers, and smiled that one-sided smile that convinced her that the Maker and Creators not only existed, they wanted her to think naughty thoughts. 

"That was...." 

"Yes." 

"Do you think we should try it again, see if that was a one time occurrence?" 

"Or we could talk about the weather. That's enjoyable, too." 

She pulled his head down to her. "Lovely weather we're having." 

"Delightful." He brushed his lips over hers. "Enough small talk? 

"Plenty."


	10. These matters that with myself I too much discuss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet our Champion.
> 
> NOW WITH ART!!!

  
  
Green Hawke by [CrypticWraith](http://crypticwraith.deviantart.com/)  


The Chant rose and fell through the rooms, as faith and hope waxed and waned with the strength of the petitioner. It was simple, peaceful, and she wanted to roll naked in the tranquility. Though naked rolling in a house of worship might be frowned upon.

The wimple itched; to be honest, everything she wore itched, the starch irritating her skin. A small price for wearing someone else's vestments. She tried not to scratch as she gazed up at the depictions of the Bride and her entourage, as she brought the Maker's word to a world that didn't want to hear until it was too late.

_I'm becoming philosophical the longer I stay here,_ she thought. He'd have a field day if he found out. She sighed softly, knew that she'd be curling up with her dog-eared copy of the Tale tonight, and imagining the debates they'd have, the rhythm of his voice making everything okay. For a little while, at least.

Fortunately this little corner of the world was lax on room checks...and on their rosters. No one noticed one more Sister on a pilgrimage, especially after the heavens were split wide open. She suspected that she wasn't the only one seeking sanctuary under less than honest circumstances.

The sun broke through outside, and the windows exploded in color. Wondering slightly at the rainbow effect, she put out her hands to catch some of the insubstantial auras. 

And what she got was red. Red on her palms, like when she held her sister's body, or her mother's, like so many others, her friends who trusted her, burned and broken and bloody. Like Anders, when she couldn’t save him.

She snatched her hands back into the voluminous sleeves, hiding the evidence that only she could see. Everyone suspected it was there, though. She was sure of it.

She shook her head slightly to clear her mind, the old ghosts retreating back to their shadows. Too much time left to her own thoughts. It was better in the outside world, even though she was often hunted and occasionally hated. At least out there her worst fears weren't given the time and energy to grow and consume her. Out there she wasn't quite so alone, even by herself. In the world she could be herself, and not-

"Sister Bethany?" She looked up as the courier approached her, sealed parchment in hand. "Letter for you, Sister. Very urgent."

It wasn't time for another letter yet, and her stomach dropped. Absently she thank the man as she hastily tore open the seal, her feet already heading to her little room.

She devoured each word, concern growing, but they were situations she could handle. Until she hit, "Corypheus. Shit." Her voice echoed down the hall, and she guiltily glanced around to see if anyone heard.

It didn't stop her, instead turning her pace into an all-out run. She ripped off the Chantry outfit; she almost threw it away, but at the last second kept the clothes. You never knew when piety could get you access you'd otherwise have to blast your way to achieve. Her traveling clothes had been waiting for her, embracing her like an old friend, and her pack was almost always ready at a moment's notice. She threw a last few belongings in, looked around, and sighed. _So much for tranquility. Really wasn't me, anyway._

She turned and stepped out of the doorway, but paused. An impulse she couldn't control, suicidal instinct, Varric would call it, had her reaching into her pack. She scribbled a few words on the inside cover of the book she had grabbed, a wicked smile breaking out. No one who looked at her now would mistake her for a sister. 

Placing it on the pillows, she was finally ready to go back where she belonged, and headed out the door. To join him, slinging spells and sharing the edge of death, laughing in the face of insane odds, and trying desperately to wash away the stains on her hands.

_Thank you for the hospitality. Who knew a mage could rest easy in the Chantry?_

_M. Hawke_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dynamic duo of Hawke and Varric have expressed the desire to have their story told within the confines of Rowan's tale. So they will be showing up more often as the story progresses. I can't help it; Varric is holding me at Bianca-point. And dictating notes.


	11. Let us go and make our visit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life resumes after the Fade, and visitations are made.

Being thoroughly kissed on the top of the battlements was something that Rowan was putting on her list as a desired regular occurrence. It would be good for her morale. But as lovely a dream as that was, she and the Commander both knew there was too much to do to indulge in whims for too long. She did, however, insist, (demand, if she was honest with herself), that he get rest. He attempted to protest about his need to see to things, but she was firm. If they had been able to function without her for over a week, they could spare him for an afternoon. After he left her, reluctantly, she accosted a page, swore him to secrecy about her current conscious status, and informed him that if anyone interrupted the Commander for anything less than Corypheus calling for tea, there would be a new contingent of stable hands to muck out the stalls for the nug and bog unicorn.

"Of-of course, Inquisitor. And may I say it's lovely to see you looking so well and in such...high spirits."

She had made it back to her rooms relatively unscathed, only Varric spotting her and demanding to know what in Andraste’s flaming ass had happened to her. She briefed him on the little she knew, and pointed him to Solas for help filling in the gaps. He stopped her with a hand on her arm as she turned to keep heading to her rooms. "Listen, Inquisitorialness, I may have invited someone to step in if you didn't...if you decided that you were perfectly content in oblivion while the world went to shit." Varric looked, well, guilty, for lack of a better word. 

"Hells, Varric. That's one of the more sensible things that you could have done. But who did you-oh no. Cassandra is going to kill you."

He swallowed. "Came to the same conclusion. But I figured it might be worth the beheading for the story."

"I'd make a comment about you possibly being a ghost writer by the time you can set pen to paper, but I thought it might be a bit cliché."

"You're sharp for someone who's been half dead for over a week."

"So is Cassandra's blade."

"I'll deal with the Seeker. At some point. Across a wide table. Besides," he grinned, a little grimly, "she may have to wait in line for her turn at 'behead the dwarf." 

"After pulling her into this mess? Likely. But if she loves you half as much as I do, she'll get past it before blood flows."

"I hope you love me a lot, oh Heraldic One."

"Infinite amounts." 

"How could you not?" 

"Good point. Will you spread the word that I'm awake... in about an hour?"

"But of course. If I can't control the rumor mill, I'll need to turn in my Guild card."

"Thanks, Varric."

"Anytime."

\-----------

True to his word, Varric waited precisely one hour to give her time to face the world again, and skim through the reports Cullen had handed her. Calling for a bath would have been akin to a trumpet blast announcing her return, such as it was, so she reluctantly expended far too much magic filling her tub and warming the water on her own. But, oh, it was bliss. 

The fact that she didn't smell like an uncleaned stable upon waking was likely one of her companions' doing, Vivienne if she guessed, who would feel it was simply not done to have the Inquisitor less than sanitary and smelling of roses. She noted that her hair hadn’t been untangled, however. It likely defied all attempts, magical and otherwise, to be tamed.

But magic had nothing on hot water and soap for actually feeling clean, and while she knew lingering wasn't an option, she closed her eyes for just a moment to let the warmth seep into her. 

Her burden was still formidable, and she felt overwhelmed even now, but there was a definite shift in her thinking. Not just would she face the trials before her, she finally thought she could face them, and she wasn't doing so alone, just as an Elvhen pariah. The very fact that Skyhold hadn’t burned to the ground while she was unconscious was a testament to the talents and abilities of those who had joined her. She may carry the mark, the key, but they carried her, made her stronger and better.

The time loss was disconcerting, as plans she had made had already been carried out, and new issues had sprung up, seemingly overnight. But major decisions still had to be made as to the ball in Orlais, as well as their continued work to stop the Venatori influence from spreading, all while they attempted to track the Elder One's movements.

Glancing at the clock on her mantle, she realized she had in fact spent far too long letting her thoughts drift, and rinsed and dried quickly. She was just slipping on her clothes when she was tackled onto her bed. 

"You're back! I told the lot a fire would work, yeah, but nooooo. 'Too dangerous, going to burn down the keep, blah blah shite.' But it's still here an' you are, too, and hey, nice bits, Elfyness. Grow 'em big in the woods, yeah?"

Sera was a deadly shot, a formidable enemy, a loyal if sometimes frustrating ally, and occasionally a Mabari puppy who had gotten into the coffee stores. 

Rowan disentangled herself from her erstwhile Red Jenny. "Wait. There _was_ a fire? Why was there a fire?"

"Motivation right? Somethin' to get you off yer ass and back in th'game." She really seemed in earnest, and Rowan was loathe to crush the gleeful expression. 

"It's quite possible that it...helped, but if something like this ever happens again, I suspect a fire wouldn’t work twice. Or floods. Or any sort of natural disaster. Maybe a dead demon, or a noble caught with their pants down. That would be the thing, I think." 

Sera seemed distressed at the idea of a lack of destruction, but it passed. "You do somethin' like that again, I'm comin' after you, no matter the creepy shite. And I'll kick your arse, Holy Herald or not."

Rowan grinned. "I wouldn't expect anything less." 

The slight rustle let her know she was about to have another visitor. She quickly buttoned her blouse, much to Sera’s chagrin, and looked over her shoulder. "Hello Cole."

Sera spun around, took one look at her new guest, and headed for the balcony. "Nope, done, too much creepy shit, welcome back, I'm gone." And before Rowan could get a word in, she was gone over the edge and off somewhere.

"She sees but doesn't understand, too much hurt and no willingness to heal." He sighed. "I try, but she doesn't want to see me. Hello,  
Inquisitor. Your light is back, though there are missing parts, and Cullen has found the smile that he lost. Solas is sadder, though not unhappy." He cocked his head to the side. "The others are coming, and there's too much noise." 

She took his hand and smiled gently at him. "I know it can be hard on you, we can talk later if you like."

"You help without hearing. How do you do that?"

The question stopped her. "I...I can't hear like you do, but I watch, and listen to what they say and what they want to say. I can see the strain in your eyes when it gets too crowded around you, hear it in your voice."

He seemed to ponder this. "I'll try to stay." He may have planned to say more, but the clamour in her entryway precluded any more conversation. 

“-viously a minion of the Elder One that held her captive.”

“Your baseless observations are one of your greatest failings.”

“One of?”

“Being a Vint comes to mind.”

“No one asked you, Qunari savage.”

“Aw, now you’re just trying to sweet talk me.”

“Did any of you lot think to knock before barging in here?” Blackwall, ever the voice of reason, caused the other three to stop in their tracks.

“It’s alright, Cole let me know you were coming,” she called.

“Unnatural.” 

“So is your neckline, Madame de Fer.”

“Yes, Pavus. I’ll be sure to take your advice on fashion when I’m looking to establish ‘heretic-chic’ as a trend.”

“So nice to know that a week-long spell of unconsciousness did nothing to curb tongues,” she muttered quietly to Cole.

“He knows he does not want what he wants, and he hates and loathes and yet he still wants, and the hate hides the rest.”

“I had wondered about that.”

“She-”

“I suspect that Lady Vivienne will tell me in time. This is one of those times I’d like to find out naturally.”

“To help?”

“If I can. If I can’t, to be there while she tells me what she needs to know, without already having an idea.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain it in depth later, when we’re slightly less crowded. It may take a bit.”

“. . .alright.” Cole sat back in the corner as the others arrived in her room, each trying to talk over the other.

“Don’t scare us like that again, lovely one, or I may be forced to take drastic measures.”

“Boss, how the hell am I supposed to be paid if you don’t fight an enemy someplace I can get to?”

“My dear, do you remember anything about what happened?”

“I’m afraid not, Vivienne. I remember falling asleep-”

“In the Commander’s bed, and you’ll have to explain how that came about later.”

Rowan shot Dorian a look. “And then I woke this morning, where I found I was missing an entire week.”

“My Lady, do you believe this will happen again?” Blackwell had a wary look on his face, which was probably a good choice. Instantly, the room became all business.

“I believe if it wasn’t a random coincidence, there will be more attempts.”

“Inquisitor Lavellan, do you have a moment. . . .” Cassandra trailed off as she walked into Rowan’s quarters and found the group sitting around the fireplace.

I might as well just remove the doors, she thought silently, but she was glad that they felt comfortable enough to approach her in her own rooms.

“Inquisitor, I am beyond relieved that you have recovered from your ordeal. I am sorry to be so abrupt; it is not because I do not care, but there are issues that simply cannot wait."

Rowan ushered her into her rooms. "Absolutely not a problem, Cassandra. I was just thinking how much needed to be done, and how woefully out of touch I must be. You'll have to bear with me; in my mind, it's only been a day, so it's taking some time to adjust to the difference."

"If you hadn't recovered, these decisions would still have to be made, but I am glad you are the one to make and implement them. The Halamshiral ordeal...I do not envy you."

She sighed. "No chance that I could pretend to still be unconscious and we could simply send a messenger? No?"

"No one is less of a fan of these fetes than I. And if there was another way, any of us, except perhaps Josephine, would have implemented it." Cassandra looked very much like she had been forced to eat something rotten.

"I know. We'll get plans finalized. Give me some time to go over our reports, but the sooner we do this, the sooner we can go back to not pandering to the Orlesians except through letters."

"My dear, we do need their allegiance, and this is the best way not only to secure their side, but to preserve the Empress' life as well." Vivienne was looking as calm and collected as ever, but there was a slight note of urgency in her voice that Rowan took as a very bad sign.

"Yes, let's go and scandalize the nobles, shall we? They simply won't know what to do with themselves with a group containing everything; a Tevinter mage, apostates, a lone Grey Warden, a dwarven merchant prince, and...that," Dorian said, gesturing in Bull's direction, who bowed from the waist down exaggeratedly.

"And all led by a Dalish mage. It'll be a hell of a thing, Boss."

"From what I can gather, scandal and intrigue are exactly what they want." She made a sound not unlike Cassandra's typical snort of disgust. "If I have to do this, none of you are getting out of it. I'll need all of you there for moral support, as well as keeping me upright and making sure I don’t embarrass the Inquisition with my backward and savage ways."

"If Lady Josephine gets her hands on you, you'll be the most accomplished player in the game inside of a week," Blackwall pointed out. "And she will get her hands on you, mark my words."

"I agree with Warden Blackwall's assessment. You will be adequately prepared for this form of assault on Halamshiral, and we will prevent this assassination from occurring."

"Or there will be a spectacular bloodbath, but in either case, it will not be boring." Dorian smirked at the incredulous faces of the others. "With Orlesians, it's definitely a possibility." There really was no argument they could make to that. 

After a few more minutes of chatter, opinions, and grumbling, mostly from Cassandra as to the fuss that had to be made, Rowan was able to shuffle everyone off on various assignments to prepare for the journey ahead and make sure Skyhold ran smoothly while they were all gone. Then she was alone again. Or...almost. "Cole? You can come out now."

"They say different things, but they're all saying the same thing. It's very confusing."

"Yes. It happens often when people are upset or trying to form a plan. I imagine it's worse when you hear what they do and don't say at the same time."

"Bees buzzing, hard to hear the voices for the voices, it's all voices." Cole refocused on her. "But they all want to keep you safe. That is the thread that ties."

The thought of that sent a warm feeling through her. "Thank you, Cole," she said with a smile. "You help me, more than you know."

"I want to help, need to. I did not like your light missing, it was much darker everywhere."

"I'll try to never leave you again." She refused to promise, no matter how much she wanted to. Dying was a constant threat for her, and as much as she wanted to live, she just didn't know if she'd be strong enough to see it through to the end.

"That would be...nice." Cole said, and disappeared. 

"We'll have to work on ending conversations," she said to the empty room.


	12. Surely Some Revelation Is At Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are shared, plans are put into place, and a visitor is made known.

She had spent the rest of her day poring over the reports from the previous week. Venatori in the Wastes, infected Templars overrunning Emprise, with some lone chevalier trying to protect the area on his own, and still no answer on the Wardens. King Alistair had sent her greetings and an apology for his harshness in Redcliffe. Not that she really blamed him; mages had nearly destroyed his city, and the future as a whole. It was enough to make anyone testy, let alone a young king who had already lived through one Blight. She still shuddered at that too real alternate reality. 

Then there was Halamshiral. The word hung over her like a sign in the stocks. She dreaded the idea of parading herself in front of dozens of Orlesian elitists, waiting to be measured up and found wanting. And it seemed ludicrous to go and dance and preen, all to warn the Empress that her life was in danger, and she should do something about it. Because apparently a direct approach was just unacceptable.

The little light she had conjured was starting to flicker and stutter on her desk, a sure sign that she had been staring at the enormous pile of papers on her desk for far too long. She straightened and stretched, unused to being hunched over a surface for long periods of time. Most mages spent years studying and reading, but for her it was a diversion from her training as the First, a novel enjoyment supplied by her father when he came across a tome in his interactions in town. "You'll like this one, Da'len. Human intrigue, and written by a dwarf. I've heard it's quite good." 

She huffed a little. "I used to think reading was enjoyable." Scowling at the papers did no good; they didn’t answer her questions. All she saw were more problems, more obstacles to overcome, and no clear cut way of success. Air and stars. That's what she needed to clear her mind, and maybe make some sense of the clutter.

\-------

The Spymaster waited for as long as she could stand before joining her in the garden. Rowan jumped slightly as the other woman slid next to her on the bench, the little conjured light she had bouncing into the grass. "My apologies, Inquisitor," she said, reaching down and handing the ball back to her. It felt cold, like a snowball in her hand. "I was taking my evening stroll and saw you hard at work. I wanted to see if anything was troubling you, any complications from your ordeal." In truth, she had been watching, off and on, for over an hour as the elf read and paced and scribbled notes, until even the Left Hand grew weary from the effort she was expending. 

Rowan rolled her neck to ease out some of the tension. "I don't know, honestly, Leliana. And if you don’t start calling me Rowan, I'm going to wonder if Inquisitor is actually my first name." Her spymaster smiled, and the softening of her features let Rowan see the young woman that hid behind the work. 

"Perhaps then, Rowan, you should share your burden with those of us who have sworn ourselves to you."

She looked down at the papers in her hands. "All I see are pieces, with nothing connecting them. Wardens and Venatori, rifts and darkspawn...and in the center of it all, a ball that could determine whether we win or lose. . .everything."

"The pieces are a first step. But it’s difficult to see the whole picture when you hold the bits in your hand." She placed a hand on the Inquisitor's shoulder. "You have a perfectly good war room, with an equally good map to guide you. If you'd like, I can call on the others, and perhaps we can work out the best strategy together."

She looked up at the sky, now fully dark, with the stars a sharp contrast to the blackness. "I won't wake the others with my foolish ruminations. It can wait for the morning."

This time Leliana laughed. "Oh, it won't wake them at all, my dear. Right now, Josephine is beginning her evening letter writing campaign, a ritual that will last well into the wee hours, and your Commander...well, you know as well as I do that he won't sleep if he doesn't have to. No matter what you may have insisted he do," she said sweetly. 

"You...he’s not my...how did you...no, I don't want to know. I'd probably never close my eyes again if I did." She took a deep breath, willing away the blush on her face, and stood. "Alright. A meeting. Let's see if we can't find some answers, and maybe, just maybe, we can get out ahead of that bastard." She tossed the magelight into the air, where it made an audible pop, and snow flitted down over the grass as she went to gather the rest of her thoughts before they met.

\-------

Notes in hand, she pushed open the door. Cullen, of course, was already there, fully dressed, hair perfectly in place. “Somehow I knew you’d be the first here, which is impressive, since I came from my quarters. So I assume you didn’t take me seriously when I told you to sleep.”

She surprised a laugh out of him, and the sound wiped the stern look off of her face. “You look rather like Cassandra when someone has told her that we’re running low on practice dummies.” He put his hands up when she was about to protest. “I assure you, I did as you rather forcefully requested and took the day to rest. I would hope I look somewhat improved over this morning.” 

His mention of the morning reminded her of what else had happened when they ran into each other, not that it had been far from her thoughts. She blushed slightly, but continued unabated. You do look better, but Maker’s bones, I worry, Commander. Cullen. I worry, and I wish I was a healer, that I could do more for you, and it makes me furious to feel so. . .so. . . .”

“Helpless at the thought of someone you care rather a lot about being in pain but out of your reach?” He lifted an eyebrow. “I believe I’m familiar with the feeling.”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, I suppose you would. It’s. . .hard. I could watch my father heal others, but I never understood the intricacies of what he did. He even told me my healing talent laid elsewhere. He never got the chance to tell me what he meant by that.”

Cullen approached her, cupped her cheek in his hand. "I think-" The door to the war room creaked open, and he dropped his fingers. He didn't move away from her though, or pretend they weren't having a conversation. She appreciated that he didn’t act ashamed. But it was time for business, and they could talk more later. She hoped they talked later. 

\-------

Later was looking like a situation that would end in tears. She stared down at the map, defeated. “I don’t want to.”

Leliana chuckled. “You and the Commander have a shared expression of horror. We are going to make sure that you get through the evening relatively unscathed.” Her look was sympathetic. “There are no guarantees that you will be unmolested, however. The court is rather aggressive on that front.”

Rowan shook her head. “This just seems. . .absurd. A dance. To prove that someone is trying to kill the Empress, because our word isn’t good enough unless we’re paraded around like exotic animals. Perhaps I should wear plumage.” Josephine choked. “I’m not serious, I promise. I will leave all decisions on fashion up to you.”

“I don’t like the level of exposure for you, Inquisitor. There are far too many unknown factors and cloak and dagger clandestine meetings for us to be able to keep you covered at all times. And your entourage can do only so much without causing undue damage to the reputation we’re attempting to maintain.” Cullen tone was distasteful. “This is a ridiculous show, all to save a life.”

“Inquisitor, Commander, please.” Josephine seemed a step away from crying or screaming. “I know that this is not typically how we handle these situations, but if you will trust me, I am not going to steer you wrong in this.” The agitated ambassador started pacing, tapping her quill against her board. “This is simply the way this group of people must be dealt with. Many things can be dispatched with a sword or a spell. For Orlais, however, we need a scalpel, one which I know how to wield.”

“Josephine, I apologize. Of course I trust you. I’m just. . .I’m everything that these people disdain. An elf, a Dalish in fact, an apostate, and leader of an Inquisition that has had Chantry and Templar alike turn their backs on it. Not to mention they’ll be looking for those signs of wildness and unpredictability that must come with me. I’m sure they’ll be wondering if I use a bone to pick my teeth or scratch myself inappropriately at the dinner table.” 

She gripped the table, knuckles white trying not to let her own sense of inadequacy overwhelm her. “And they’ll adore that I can’t even use my own name,” she spat, and Josephine’s eyes widened. Briefly she explained to the Antivan what the spymaster and commander already knew, that she had been expelled from the clan, that she was on her own. She had cried all the tears for the world she had lost; she had no more to give them, and wouldn’t waste her energy trying.

“I. . .am sorry, that this has happened to you.” She could see the regret in the other woman’s eyes. “You do not deserve such treatment, especially from those who are supposed to be your family.”

“Thank you, Josie. It will be. . .okay.” The wound was still sore, but the dedication of the people she had chosen, their care while she had been imprisoned, and after, were a salve that was helping it to heal. “The Inquisition is my family now, as has been pointed out to me recently,” she said, smiling slightly up at Cullen, whose eyes shone with pride that she had voiced her acceptance of them as her people. “So I will leave it to you to come up with something fitting for me to use.”

Additionally, for better or worse, she gave Josephine free reign on plans for the ball. She had no interest in the minutiae, and it was worth it to see the woman almost faint with joy. "You will not be disappointed! Though a month. . .I do hope that allows enough time for the tailors. . .and the dance lessons. . . ." She was already make lists, mentally and on her parchment, her mind on a thousand different tasks.

Rowan smiled. "Any issues I have will have nothing to do with you and everything to do with Orlesian politics. And if you have any problems with getting our little group to play along, then tell them they'll be composing songs with Maryden until Corypheus is defeated." Her grin turned wicked. "I have a sneaking suspicion who our biggest protester will be, and outside of drugging her, it's the surest way to keep her in line."

Leliana mirrored her look. "Inquisitor, I believe you'll be just fine playing the Game in Orlais."

The spymaster had been right; of course she was. Their problems were much more easily solved when there were minds and voices added to her own. And then she looked at her final papers, a single name written on the very bottom, and she took a deep breath.

"There’s one more thing, or, rather, person, we need to discuss. Creators, I wish Varric was telling you this instead of me; I should have dragged him out of bed. He invited someone to join us." As she glanced back up at them, dawning realization crossed each of their features.

"Varric should run. Far, far from Cassandra," Leliana said quietly. 

"He knew where she was this whole time." Cullen's voice skated the edge between amusement and anger.

"Why did he ask her to come now?" Josephine's pen was poised over her parchment, as though she had lost her place.

"He asked a few days ago. When I was still. . .trapped. He thought the Inquisition might need someone to step in if I didn't come back." She laughed mirthlessly. "She was the first choice after all. I just came stumbling into all of this."

A sharp thud sent parts of Thedas flying. "You are our Inquisitor. There is no other choice." His voice was dark and dangerous, and his fist was planted on the table. "You have earned your role and your title, do not doubt that for a moment."

"The Commander is right, if rather demonstrative," Josephine agreed, glancing at the board and gently putting Val Royeaux back in position. "The Champion of Kirkwall will be welcome, but you have been chosen, and we will stand with you."

"We do stand with you. Not that I believe Lady Hawke is interested in your position," Leliana added. "She's very likely coming to assist us. . .and to have a few words with our resident author, I have no doubt." 'No doubt' was Spymaster for 'I had this thoroughly checked on months ago as an eventuality,' or so Rowan had learned.

"Gods and Maker, I have no intention of going anywhere or handing over my role, no matter how tempting the thought may occasionally be to hide under the covers until the world stops coming to an end. But if, if something was to happen to me, it would be good to have someone who could step in, finish the job we've started." They all looked disturbed at the thought that this would be a possibility. But they were also all practical and seasoned. She hadn’t their training, but she had grown up knowing life was hard, and could be painful and short.

"It's maudlin, I know. But it’s, I feel, a necessary precaution. Which we can deal with later." She put her papers aside. "For now, let's finish plotting our fate at the hands of the nobles of Orlais."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bonus chapter this week, and as always, thank you for reading. Hopefully I'm not making too big of a mess of this whole story. I struggled with this section quite a bit.


	13. Hours When All Must Fade Like Dew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late evening conversations lead to early morning spell-weaving.

**Temperance, by the amazing[Dissatisfied Doodles](http://dissatisfied-doodles.tumblr.com/)**

"A moment, Inquisitor." Cullen stopped her with a hand on her elbow as they headed out of the war room, plans solidly in place for Halamshiral, whether or not she liked it, and everyone a little on edge about their new arrival.

The other two had gone far enough ahead that they either hadn't or pretended not to notice them stopping. They had their heads together, so far-reaching conspiracies were likely at work, involving uncomfortable shoes and complicated dance moves.

"Maker, if they keep talking, we're all doomed." There was still tension in the set of her jaw, and the stiffness of her shoulders, even as she tried to make light. He knew it had cost her, to voice again what the Lavellan clan had done, and then to give Josephine direction to announce it to the court. She could have kept up the pretense, but she was no liar. She looked up at him, and he wanted to smooth the strain away. 

As it was, he leaned in and kissed her, lightly, because, "You looked as though you needed it, and I couldn't resist." And he couldn't. Now that he had tasted her, he craved, as much as he had ever craved the little blue bottles. More, because she made him feel greater than what he was, not less.

That got the laughter he had hoped for, the mirth that was enough to relax her and drive away the shadows. "Was that all you wanted to see me about?"

"Not all, though it was definitely part of it." He smirked, and loved the way her eyes followed his lips as he did. He sobered quickly, however. "I wanted to make it clear that I don’t simply find this ball a nuisance. I believe that Orlais is as dangerous as any battlefield, and going to Halamshiral no different from invading an enemy's keep. It may be more treacherous, because we have to assume everyone is an enemy and not simply an innocent bystander." He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm before heading through the door of the war room. 

"I understand. And I'm honestly terrified of the prospect of going. There are so many unknowns, so many little slights that can tear the world down around us. But I do know this. We're going in as a united front. Hell, now we even potentially have the Champion on our side, though I don't know how keen she's going to be on the idea. But we will stop Corypheus' future from occurring." She shuddered. "We have to."

"I have every faith that we will. That you will."

"You have a great deal of faith in my abilities."

"With good reason. You've proven yourself time and again. You're who we needed, when we needed you."

"Thank you." It felt inadequate, just two words, but he smiled and squeezed her hand with his arm.

The day had been long, but she wasn't tired, for obvious reasons, and as they continued walking together, she looked down at their combined arms. "Not that I mind, but where are we headed?" They had reached the door leaving Josephine's office, and he stopped to answer. 

"It's quite dangerous these days. I thought you could use an escort to the door of your chambers."

"And if I had any intention of going to sleep, I would be eternally grateful. But I've apparently been unconscious for a week. It's likely going to be a while before I get up the nerve to close my eyes again. And I have a lot to think about. Care for a drink?"

Several thoughts ran through his mind at once. Was it wise to have a drink with her? He didn't mind others knowing; frankly he'd have no problem crying from the rooftops that she was with him, that he was hers and she was his. But were they? Did she? Maker, life was already complicated enough without-

She grabbed his hand in hers. "Let me rephrase. We're having a drink." Her eyes flitted over his face, finally meeting his, happy, but intense. "Your mind is working far too hard for this to be anything but a good idea."

"I think a question that I need to start asking myself is: will I ever win an argument with you?"

She smiled. "The ones you're meant to win, yes. This one...no." She squeezed his fingers and then gently pushed him toward the outer hall. "And maybe you and I can have a conversation that doesn't involve Corypheus, Halamshiral, or my clan's behavior. Like those siblings of yours. I never had a brother or sister; it must be wonderful."

He chuckled. "You have definitely never had either, or you wouldn't think so. But yes, I think I'd like that; a talk that doesn't involve chaos and ruin. It's almost novel."

The two of them made their way to the Herald's Rest, which was essentially deserted, and talked until the stars faded into dawn about everything and nothing. Even the grizzled bartender had no desire to let them know when the bar closed. Besides, Cabot had good coin resting on the pair.

_______

Rowan made her way back towards her chambers as the sky started to lighten. Skyhold was never truly asleep, but in those moments before the majority of the keep came to life, there was a relative peace that settled over everything, that made her wish she could give everyone who followed her the same sense of serenity.

"Am I doing what you want?" She asked the air. "I really have no idea, but since I don't seem to be getting much in the way of direct divine guidance, I'm going to assume you'd like me to stop Corypheus from destroying the world."

She had never been the most reverent of prayerful people; it was difficult when everyone seemed to believe half of what you did with twice the devotion. So she had decided long ago that the Maker and Creators were like parents, and Andraste. . .she was a mother, sister, and confidant all rolled into one. So she usually spoke to them that way, and hoped they didn't take offense. 

"I'd also really like to know that when I go to sleep again, I won't be captured by another demon. I know that's a lot to ask, but I have an Inquisition to lead, and it's a bit difficult if I'm busy fighting in the Fade." Her steps had taken her to Solas' tower. She wasn’t quite sure when she had decided to see if he was up and about, but she quietly pushed open the door, and saw him poring over papers.

He looked up when she entered, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face, before he settled on a small smile. "Lethal’lan."

"I hoped you were awake."

"My sleeping habits are not what would be considered normal, so I often find myself greeting the morning." He reached for the pot that was steaming on the table. "Would you share a cup with me?"

She chuckled. "I have a feeling you're asking so that there's less for you to drink." But she accepted his offering, sipping at the bitter tea and grimacing. "You know, sugar does wonders for all sorts of things. Not just those little cakes I've seen you occasionally sneak." Rowan laughed harder at the slightly guilty expression on his face. "Don't worry, Lethal'lin. I won't let anyone know you're mortal like the rest of us."

There was an almost pained look, but it was gone in an instant. "So tell me, what brings you here at this hour? Are you suffering any ill effects of the past week? Or did you just come to steal my cakes?"

"Most definitely the cakes," she said, opening the drawer she knew he kept them in and popping one in her mouth, closing her eyes and savoring it with a hum of appreciation. 

He was madly jealous of the damnable pastry. She didn’t see him swallow hard at her moment of unbridled joy. Distraction, that's what it was; another distraction sent to drive him out of his mind before his work was complete. He breathed deep, searching for the calm that was always so elusive around her. "Besides foraging through my belongings, is there anything further I can do to help you, Rowan?"

She finished the cake, and he was both saddened and relieved. "I was hoping to talk with you about a way to guard my rest, if that’s possible. I have no desire for anyone to go through an ordeal like that again. And I most certainly don't want to be caught in another trap. Just because I got away once it doesn't mean I'll be lucky a second time." Absently she sipped the tea again, and then put it down, remembering why she drank coffee.

"Mmm. I had been considering that problem myself. I believe that I can, with your help, and a bit of luck."

"My help? My talents are far from anything having to do with dreaming."

"You are a mage of no small ability, and I will need to have something of you in its building." He cleared an area on the table, and procured a bowl and several other ingredients in short order. Grinding up several herbs, he then proceeded to calmly grab a small knife off the table and slice open his palm, letting the blood drop into the mixture. She inhaled sharply, and he looked back up at her, his eyes coming back into focus, so intent was he on his ritual. He smiled thinly. "This is not blood magic, though there is blood involved. I am merely creating a link to prevent you from becoming lost again. Unless...if you would rather not be connected so, I did not consider...." He looked a bit flustered. 

"No, no, it's fine. Just unexpected, but I should be used to that with you, Lethal'lin." She put out her hand, but he shook his head. 

"The Marked one would be best, I believe, with its increased connection to the Fade." Rowan put her hand out, a little reluctantly. The Mark always stung, and she wasn't sure she wanted to add to-

White hot fire shot from her palm up her arm, and she couldn’t bite back the cry of pain. Solas glanced up, sorrow in his eyes, but kept her hand over the bowl, letting her blood mix with his as it dripped out of the cut he had made, the Mark seeming to flare and snap with each drop taken. "I hate causing you injury, Lethal'lan, but it is necessary." Satisfied with the amount he collected, he held his hand over hers, and the pulsing ache eased as he brushed the healing spell over her, his magic the stroke of fur on skin.

She made a small sound, a soft groan of relief, and he stilled. Looking up, she saw that his eyes had dilated and his breathing had become shallow and rapid. The tension in the room suddenly expanded, and she didn't move, unsure of what, exactly, he was feeling, but he looked almost frightened. "Solas?" she said, barely above a whisper. 

He started, dropping her hand, and the moment seemed to pass. "I am sorry. That was...an old memory coming to the surface, nothing more."

"No need to apologize." She wanted to reach out, but he was as likely to flinch away at her touch as find comfort in it. Instead, she brought him back to the matter at hand. "So, what's our next step?"

The mention of the spell brought him fully back, the unruffled hahren teaching his student the ways of the world. "We need a ring or amulet, something you can wear when you sleep." She was at a loss; her adornments were already imbued with their own spells, the few she had. With only a moment's hesitation, he took the wolf's jaw from around his neck, and dropped it into the bowl.

"I could have found something else. You didn't need to do that."

His eyes were steady on hers. "I know. I wished to. Now here, concentrate on the amulet. I will steer the spell if you can help to power it." He cupped his hands over hers, palms facing down, and their magic mingled. She felt Solas pick up the frozen tendrils of her power, manipulating and worrying it, that wild autumn scent of his work filling her nose. 

There had never been a mage who affected as many of her senses as he did when he cast; magic seemed to simply be a part of him, like his skin or his eyes, and it was heady and dizzying. She had worked with her Keeper on spells together, but it was never like this, this intricate pattern that they both instinctively understood and wove as one. The concoction under their hands glowed with a quiet red light, the green pulse of her hand making a sharp counterpoint. 

Rowan could have stayed, swaying in the grip of their mingled power, but eventually she felt his magic ebbing, drawn back like a pelt rubbing against her the wrong way. The red light died back, until the bowl was illuminated only by the lights around them and the glow of her Mark. She blinked large eyes at him. "That was incredible."

Solas' hands still hovered over hers, and in another moment of weakness he took her fingers in his and brought them to his lips. "Your skill is incredible, Lethal'lan. Casting with you is a pleasure." He was loathe to let her go, but he knew he had reached his limit of self-restraint, and released her.

Her cheeks colored slightly. "'Ma serranas. Now tell me, for all that weaving, was our goal achieved?"

He reached down into the bowl and brought the talisman back out. It seemed unchanged, but when he placed it in her palm, she felt a thrum of magic. "Yes, I think that shall do nicely. Your dreams should be guarded now, 'ma falon, and there should be no danger, but if there is, I'll know. We will not lose you again."

She smiled brightly, and he cursed his traitorous heart yet again. "I never doubted you'd have a solution. You seem to have so many answers."

A thrill of fear at her innocent words reinforced his resolve. She could not know. No one could, and he'd have to be even more careful than before. "I have very few, but I fear my ego makes it seem as if my knowledge is endless."

Rowan laughed, the clear light sound echoing through the tower and in the corners of his empty soul. "Don't be falsely modest for me, hahren," she said, giving him a role his contemporaries would have choked to hear him called. "You're invaluable. I wouldn't know what we would have done without you."

"Persevered, of course. One of your greatest strengths." He stood, hoping to end a conversation that he was loving and hating more than his fragile facade could handle. "But please, go and try out our newest weapon in the arsenal, and have dreams undisturbed by demons."

She stood as well, almost moving to embrace him again, but something in his body language must have warned her off. "I will," she said, voice soft, as if trying not to startle him into bolting. "Dareth shiral, 'ma Falon."

"Dareth shiral, Rowan." His hands shook with suppressed emotion, waiting until she left to turn to the stone wall and slam his fist into it silently, the bones cracking under the force a welcome distraction. 

Rowan did eventually sleep, her dreams vague and insubstantial. And at the edges of her consciousness it stood, a four-legged shadow guarding her sleep, ready to lead her home if she was led astray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final in-between chapter to keep the appetite whetted until Hawke arrives. And because life is always sweeter when Solas is tortured. . .just a bit.


	14. One With Her Are Mirth and Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Champion arrives, lessons are begun, and two forces meet for the first time.

"What nugshit at the ass-end of the world have you dragged me to now, Tethras?"

She was using his last name. That was typically a bad sign. Usually that meant he was going to have his ass handed to him. And the fact that she was angry enough to bend over and hand his ass to him made him even more concerned for his well-being. He should have known that the battlements were a poor choice of meeting place. It was far too easy to throw him over the side and have it look like an accident. 

"Great to see you too, Hawke. You got here in what, a week? How was the trip? Uneventful, I hope?" Sometimes nonchalance worked.

"Not getting out of it that easily, dwarf." And sometimes it made things far worse. "Why. Am. I. Here?" She punctuated each word with a jab from her staff. She was mad enough to singe his chest hair. Last time that had happened, the smell ruined his favorite shirt, and it itched like a Lowertown whore for a week. The smell of burning wood reached his nose, and he took a cautious step backwards.

He sighed. "Well, I told you about the Inquisitor being down for the count. Thought we could use your skills here."

"She seems to have made a remarkable recovery. I've been up here for the past couple of hours, getting a feel for the disaster you've pulled me into. Oh look, there she goes again, if the one with the green glowing hand is any indicator. She's strolling across the grounds with Cullen. Maker, they're like a pair of lovesick puppies. They must have crossed back and forth three times already, failing at pretending they're not panting for each other."

Varric leaned in beside her on the erasure. "More like a pair of lovesick mother hens. He's been at her side constantly since her little Fade hostage situation, and she won't leave him alone because Curly's quit the blue stuff. Cold." That distracted her from her current homicidal tendencies. 

"Really?" She thought for a minute. "Good for him. I see the 'you'll die if you give it up' propaganda was about as authentic as Isabela's 'I have a completely legitimate caper' schemes. I'll have to check and see if she's giving him anything to counter the withdrawal symptoms. I learned a few things from...from Blondie before the world exploded." The bone-deep sadness she constantly carried rippled across her face briefly, but she pushed it away, hiding behind her sardonic smile before even Varric saw too much. "The Templars were all so high on that garbage in Kirkwall that they couldn't see the apostate waving her staff under their noses. Good to know that Cullen wanted out of that life. I always thought he deserved more than the shit deal he was handed."

Her eyes suddenly narrowed, and Varric knew he was back up a creek without a paddle.

"Speaking of shit deals, she's better, but I'm still here, and decidedly not getting a new title. And you know how I love to collect titles. They're like rowdy unwanted children that bring far too much attention to me." She sighed, and some of the anger dissipated. "Far too much."

"I probably should have waved you off when she woke up, but I figured, hell, I don't know, I figured you'd have some insight on Corypheus, since he's back in the game, some brilliant bit of Hawke logic that would at least get the Seeker to sharpen the blade before she loosened my head from my neck." He ran a hand around his throat, considering. 

"And here I was hoping it was because you missed me, couldn't live without me, and were finally going to declare your undying devotion to my heart, soul, and _body_." She emphasized the 'body' bit, that wasn't artistic license on his part. Unless it was and he was hearing things that weren't there. Which was possible. He'd been near red lyrium lately.

"That sounds in character for me. 'Hey Hawke, good to see you, the end of the world is nigh, and by the way I'd like to have you in my heart and on my bed until that happens. Whaddya say?'" He had a small hope she'd take the bait of his shameless and far less than poetic confession, but most of him bet on the actual response he got.

"With a proposition like that, how could I refuse?" She batted her eyelashes at him. "Oh, Master Tethras, you magnificent silver-tongued wordsmith. I need your tender caresses. Take me now!" And she flung herself at him clumsily, laughing as he caught her and she smacked her lips against his cheek. He laughed too; he couldn't help it. 

Hawke at her worst was a force of nature, and at her best she was the most captivating thing in Thedas. He'd seen both, and all the other Hawkes in between, and wanted them all. If Hawke the best friend and confidant was all he could have, then so be it. That one still felt like home in his arms. He'd weave the other ones into tales, and keep those shadows for himself. His...inclinations had waited this long. He could hold out another millennia or so.

She didn't seem to want his death anymore, if the hysterical giggling into his shoulder was any indication, so that was a victory. Now, to have her meet the Inquisitor, and keep his head with the Seeker. He saw Rowan approaching from below, after reluctantly detaching herself from Curly, and steeled himself.

\------

“Again, my dear. And less touching, not more. It’s about anticipation, not fulfillment,” Vivienne admonished. Sera was wholeheartedly brushing up against an extremely disconcerted Cassandra, who was looking for the slightest opportunity to leave the enforced lessons.

“This is a waste of time,” the Seeker said. Again.

“Lady Cassandra, just do as she asks and we can all get out of here sooner.” Blackwall cut in, deftly handing Sera off to Bull, who proceeded to distract her with intricate spins that had her laughing madly. The Warden bowed to the Seeker, who, slightly stunned by the interruption, responded with her own. Then he swept her off into the steps that the enchanter and ambassador had been drilling into them for the past two hours.

Rowan was trying to be the stoic face of the Inquisition, to play along with the dance lessons and the dinner lessons and the diction lessons. But in truth she was tired and frustrated. Cassandra was voicing everything she felt, and Sera was acting out the way she wanted to. Because she was apparently a child, or at least an adult who chafed at the level of rules she was being smothered by. Next to her, Cullen let out a small sigh. “This is interminable,” he muttered under his breath.

Josephine tapped her pointer. “Whispering is for dark corners and indiscretions that are meant to be noticed.” The Commander frowned. 

“All right, everyone. Once more, from the beginning.” Josephine looked like she was actually starting to regret the idea of the ball.

Elves didn’t dance like this, this stiff, formal movement that didn’t reveal anything to the partner about the emotions that were occurring, even just the joy of the steps themselves. There was no joy in this, at least not for her. It was a recitation, a memorized series, nothing more. She looked up to see Dorian snatch Sera out of the Bull’s arms and send her through the motions. The expression on his face when he deliberately looked at Bull was indecipherable. For his part, the big Qunari just quirked his eyebrow and snatched the hand of the Spymaster, who had been standing to the side, her face a mask of calm. 

A hand extended out to her, long fingers beckoning her, and breaking her from studying her people. “If you would be so kind, Lethal’lan.” She glanced over at Cullen, but he seemed relieved that his feet were going to be spared on the next pass through. 

“You’ll be in want of shoes when you’re done,” he said to the elf, and Rowan elbowed him as she went to join the dance line. She smothered a laugh when Madame De Fer noticed that he was partnerless and made her way towards him, determination as elegantly worn by her as her gowns. “Oh, Maker.”

Solas executed the intricate dance flawlessly, as he did everything, it seemed, making her a better dancer with his skill and grace. She had neither, and was just grateful he didn’t walk away with broken toes. For his part, he just smiled slightly, bowed at the waist, and handed her back to the slightly stunned Commander.

“I’m not sure what just happened. I believe I may have just been led through either dance steps or a walk to the headsman block.” He rubbed his back. “She actually rapped me across the spine and told me to straighten my posture.”

Rowan locked eyes with the Ambassador, conveying in no uncertain terms that they were done for the day. Her feet were sore, her pride was bruised, and despite having labored through a dozen courses, she was starving. Reluctantly, Josephine dismissed them, with a warning to practice and a reminder that there would be more of the same in the coming days and weeks.

She took Cullen’s arm and, not feeling the slightest bit of shame, made her retreat. “I’m starting to wonder if the Empress really couldn’t be best served with a sternly worded letter and a delegation.”

“I’m sure if Varric worded it, the meaning would be conveyed. Where was our resident author, by the way? I’m amazed he escaped the herding this morning.”

They walked out of the main hall, the need to get outside and away from the pressure to perform driving them both. “Unless I miss my guess, his esteemed visitor was due to arrive within the next day or so. So, he’s either meeting with her, preparing for her arrival, or running from her.” 

Cullen chuckled, and a page almost tripped over herself at the noise as they walked by. She immediately vowed to writer her parents, in case this really was the end times. “You haven’t even met her, and you seem to have a relatively keen sense of the person she is. Or at least was. A few years can make quite a difference, especially the years she’s likely had.”

The two of them took a circuitous route around the keep, not having any particular goal in mind, just enjoying each other’s company and not having Vivienne or Josephine keep time to their movements. “I read Varric’s Tale of the Champion, which I’m sure has as many falsehoods as truths in it, but after meeting him, and listening to some of the other, smaller stories, I started to be able to read between the lines. I think.”

“Including the fact that he’d die for her.”

“Anyone who’d face Cassandra’s wrath is someone I’d be lucky to call my friend.”

“Anyone willing to face both the Seeker’s and the Champion’s wrath is someone I’d call lucky to be alive.”

“A very fair assessment.” She looked up at the surrounding battlements, spotting her dwarven companion alongside another figure. “I believe the moment of truth has arrived.”

“Then, Inquisitor, I shall leave you to your meeting, and I wish you well.” He unwound her hand from his arm, and squeezed her fingers lightly. “I’ll be in my chambers if you’d like to stop by later. I’d be interested in your impressions of her.”

“You’re not going to join me, say hello to your former contact?” She was nervous, she freely admitted to the fact. It wasn’t every day a legend walked into Skyhold.

Damn his lip. “No, I believe this is something you should do on your own, and there's only so many times I can take being called Curly in a single conversation," he replied dryly.

"I was afraid you'd say that. I will see you later, then, Commander." With a steadying breath, she mounted the stairs to the battlement to see what fate had in store for her next.

\------

"Inquisitor, this is Hawke." Varric stepped out of the way. Two mages meeting for the first time could turn into a pissing contest at the drop of a staff. He again wondered why meetings were being conducted in areas outside and around the keep, and never in a nice, comfortable room where there was ample cover if the spells or swords started flying.

It was fascinating, from a writer's perspective, to watch the two size each other up. Rowan was slim, like most elves, and pale as the snow on the Frostbacks, with long dark brown hair that looked as wildly untamed as a Dalish stereotype. It was unbound any time she wasn't out on a mission, and even then it was loosed from its braids at the slightest opportunity. It was a metaphor for her; bound out of necessity, but with a wildness that really couldn't be contained. 

She would be considered pretty by most standards, and the exotic flair of the pointed ears helped. It was her eyes, though, that made you stop and take notice of everything else about her. You looked at the Mark, but stared at those uncanny blue eyes that saw inside of you, until you found yourself not just revealing the darker parts of your psyche, you wanted to, only so she would tell you it was alright. Hell, she had almost gotten the story of Bianca out of him, and even Hawke hadn’t been able to do do that...yet. He still didn’t completely trust that one day he wouldn’t make that fatal slip around her. She did that to him.

Hawke. . .he had written pages on her, whole books, but nothing remotely matched up to the truth of her. Standing a good head taller than the Inquisitor, she made sure to always use her height to her advantage, whether bargaining for a better price in the markets of Kirkwall or facing down a homicidal Arishok. At the moment she held herself with the dignity of a queen as she talked over plans with the Inquisitor. 

Everything about Marian Hawke screamed normal woman, but you'd be a fool to mistake her for one. The fair skin was usually red from being in the sun too long and not being able to tan. Her hair, stick straight and on the brown side of red, she kept to just below her shoulders. Her eyes, like Lavellan's, drew you to her, and they showed every emotion despite the best efforts of their owner. Green, the leaves in the early spring. How long had he tried to find the right words to capture her, finally giving up in frustration and leaving her decidedly vague in his story. Because Marian Hawke was so much more than a description. He couldn't begin to describe the way armies trembled at her anger, as fire flew from her hands, or how her arms, muscular for a mage, held on tenderly when Merrill had discovered the dead baby rabbits in a thicket during one of their adventures. She had wept, and Hawke just kept her close. Then there was-

"Varric. Hey, Tethras, we're not boring you here, are we?"

While he had been waxing poetic, the two women seemed to be amenable to each other, and Hawke had explained her idea to bring Stroud into the fold. It was worth any advantage they could get. Now they were staring at him, Rowan slightly concerned, and Hawke as though she had found something new to torment him with.

He smiled. "The meeting of two powerhouses shifts the author's mind into gear. I was just setting the scene."

Hawke groaned. "Maker, not another bloody book with half truths and legend-making." She looked back at the Inquisitor. "Listen, Rowan? If he decides he wants to write a story about you, run the other way. You'll never be able to escape the legacy this one creates."

"You have five copies of the Tale at any given time in your sack, don't give me that shit. You even had the special limited edition children’s edition so that you could show tiny little Hawke fans your greatness."

"I need kindling when I'm on the run from angry. . .everyone." She linked arms with the Inquisitor. "You're on your own, Varric. I'm buying this one a drink and telling her what actually happened. It's far less interesting, and far, far less romantic, than what he wrote. About the same amount of bloodshed, though."

Hawke didn't give much of an opportunity for the other woman to do more than glance back at Varric. "It's probably best you avoid Cassandra until we have a talk with her. I'm sure she knows about our new guest by now."

Varric swallowed audibly. "Right then. Hiding up in the tavern. That's an old habit I can fall into."

As they descended the stairs so Hawke could thoroughly corrupt the Inquisitor, he made his way, cautiously, to the top floor of the inn. The Seeker never seemed to come there, so he'd be safe from the wrath of that formidable force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist. Hawke had to arrive, and she's been chomping at the big to join in the fun.


	15. Full Of Passionate Intensity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small battle is pitched, and a nickname is attempted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a mini chapter. Because it's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are highly overrated.

"You knew the whole time!"

Apparently a third floor room at the top of an inn was not enough of a deterrent for a vengeful Pentaghast.  He had found that wide table, though, and kept it between the two of them, just out of her grasp.

She seemed just about ready to bodily push it aside, however, in her desire to get her hands around his throat.

"Damn right I did, and I'm not sorry! Hawke is my friend, and I wasn't going to betray her. Especially not after your interrogation techniques.  Not a great selling point to have people help you out, by the way. You might want to work on that." Varric was terrified, but he was fuming, too. "And you have an Inquisitor; you don't need two."

"That is not the point! We needed her, the Inquisition needed her, and you kept her from us!" Cassandra moved to launch herself across the table until a voice stopped her.

"What the hell is going on? Cassandra, stop trying to kill Varric."

"Inquisitor, he-"

"I know." The solemnity in her voice stopped them both cold. "He told me after I woke up from the Fade that he had sent for her."

"And you did not tell me?" The Seeker actually looked hurt.

"It wasn’t my news to tell. And you tend to react rather violently to information you don't wish to hear." She smiled a little at Cassandra's grunt of disgust, and put her hand on the Seeker’s arm gently, as though she was calming a wild animal. "I trust you both with my life. But you don't trust each other, and that needs to change. You've had each other's backs a numerous times, and you're both formidably intelligent.  You can figure this one out, too."

"But not right now," called a voice from the stairs. "I'd like to meet the woman who wants to use my dwarf as a pincushion. I'd come up, but I've had several pints and suffer from a distinct lack of ambition for any more stair climbing."

Cassandra's looked askance at her Inquisitor.  "I do not know...." She turned to glare at Varric. "Fine. But this is not over."

"Yes, you'll kill me later. Are you going to stab more literature-"

"Shut up, Varric," came Hawke's disembodied voice. "Take the win and stop narrating for once." Even Cassandra lost some of her ferocity at that, and went downstairs to meet another legend who could quiet the dwarf with the tone of her voice.

Rowan, for her part, sat heavily on the seat across from Varric. "That could have been worse," she said with a smile.

"Maker's brass balls, I thought she was going to throw this table at me."

"I'm kind of surprised she didn't try.  You should have told her, Varric.  Not back then, I understand why you didn't, but she should have known Hawke was coming here." There were those eyes again, peering into the dark corners. "Please, try and trust her."

"You're asking for a lot. I don't trust myself half the time. All right, all right!" he said when she gave him a look. "I'll try. Good thing thing I like you, Blue."

"Blue?"

He shook his head. "Nope, not the name for you. I was just trying it out."

 


	16. The Ways Deep And The Weather Sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More plans are made in the War Room, and some are finally executed. A significant amount of inner dialogue occurs that may call into question the sanity of the Champion.

“What fucking moron came up with this idea?”  Hawke stared down at the war table.  “Oh, wait, I did.  I have some terrible ideas.”  She shook her head.

Cullen measured up Hawke.  It had been a few years since he had seen the Champion, and while on the surface she seemed unchanged, the same sarcastic, witty woman he had begrudgingly admired, there was a layer of weariness and an edge that he could relate to.  It had been a long road for her, as much as for any of them.  He didn’t know the story behind Anders, had no idea what had happened to the mage that was supposed to be her great love who had caused so much destruction.  But he suspected it wasn’t a happy ending. “This contact of yours, this Stroud. . .I remember him, vaguely, from Kirkwall.  Can he be trusted?”

“I don’t know. . .as much as you can trust any Grey Warden, I suppose, especially when there's a Darkspawn involved.  But he’s worried, and a worried Warden is akin to Varric putting his pen down.  If it happens, pay attention, because something horrible is about to happen.”  Hawke paced, restless.  She didn’t like meeting face to face with people she hadn’t had time to evaluate.  Curly she knew, at least from Kirkwall, but Leliana’s face was only vaguely familiar, and the Antivan was a wild card.

Rowan looked at her advisors.  “We have to do something I know none of us wants, by dividing our efforts more than we already have.”  She looked at the token of standing in for Crestwood.  “And Stroud won’t agree to come meet us here?”

The Champion shook her head.  “No.  I’m amazed he agreed to this much, and he insists that you come out to see him, Inquisitor.” She sighed.  “He’s paranoid on top of whatever else is going on, and I’m not pleased about it.  It’s a miracle he was willing to use the birds to communicate, and didn’t just shoot them out of the sky.”

Rowan looked up at the group.  “Alright.  Then I’m not heading into any other areas at the moment, as I had intended, but we still need to find out what’s going on in Emprise and the other locations that we’ve received reports on.”

“Inquisitor, if I might.” Leliana spoke.  “Let me send scouts ahead. They can get in undetected, in the small numbers you requested, and they can report back with some idea of what’s happening, so that we can create a more concise plan.”

“Commander, your opinion on this?”  She had learned her lesson from her first foray into strategy.  Informed opinions were vital in determining the best outcome.  

Cullen nodded.  “Yes, this is the best course of action I can ask for outside of an all-out assault, which we cannot do blindly.  But in Crestwood-”

Hawke interjected.  “I’m going ahead, to meet up with Stroud and prepare the way. If there’s something worth knowing, I’ll send a raven ahead and let you know.”

“By yourself?  We can surely spare a few soldiers, Lady Hawke,” Josephine replied.

Rowan knew the answer before she spoke.  “I’ve traveled alone this far.  I wouldn’t know what to do with a group of puppies following at my heels.  And I wouldn’t want to be responsible for what would happen.”  Hawke smiled, a wild and wicked look.  “And don’t bother arguing.  I’ve been avoiding authorities for a while.  I’d sneak off on them just on principle now.”  She was antsy, needing to be on the move, needing to act now that she had a purpose.  The elf could see it in the way her fingers moved restlessly, how she balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to run at a moment’s notice, like she was reliving chases of the past. Careful planning was not part of the Champion’s repertoire.

Cullen nodded.  “I know better than to stop you, once you’ve made your mind up.”

“You’ve grown wise in your old age, Curly.”

“You’re not this accommodating with me, Commander.”

“You’re the Inquisitor, Inquisitor.  Hawke, for all her written immortality, is her own entity.” He smirked, and she glared, because she’d decided it was her only defense to that look.  A trained soldier, he ignored it and continued.  “Now, as for your group….”

It always seemed to take hours to plan and plot when they entered a new area.  It was important, she knew that, but she wanted to start, to move ahead.  She had been stagnant, stuck for longer than she wanted, and with every moment, it seemed that Corypheus was surging ahead, winning by her inaction, and it was untenable.  Finally, finally, she was able to move, and she felt the satisfaction fiercely.

“Thank you, everyone.  You believe we can be ready in two days’ time?  That will give Hawke time to move ahead of us, prepare Stroud for our arrival?” They assented. “Then let’s hope this provides some answers.”

Hawke moved ahead, almost as though she was escaping, which in a way she was.  Thank the Maker the elf had fallen out of the Fade, frankly, because there was no way she could have handled the Inquisition and all of the structure and planning.  Her advisors would have thrown her to the Venatori within a week out of disgust. . .if she hadn’t set fire to them first.  She looked at the other woman who wore the weight of a title as they left the room.  “Tell me, how do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Lead like this.  Strategize.  Have the patience of Andraste to stand while you work out details and minutiae.  It’s awful.”

Rowan was silent for a minute.  “Sometimes I wish I could go charging into these situations.  I’ve been soundly talked out of that tactic, no matter how tempting. Because, in the end, there are so very many lives depending on me, those I’ve pledged to serve. More than just the ones here in Skyhold.  All of Thedas seems balanced on the precipice of whether or not I fail.  And it’s...overwhelming. But between my advisors, who are a team simply without equal, and the group that have decided to be my front line, they’ve grounded me, reminded me I can do this, if I take the time to map it out, look at things from more angles than I thought existed.  Except Sera.  You haven’t met her yet, but if she had her way, I wouldn’t know what I was doing until I was already done.” She chuckled.  “But from the beginning, I’ve had others to help me as I’ve flailed wildly through this entire mess.”  She put her hand on Hawke’s arm.  “I envy you in a lot of ways.”

This shocked a laugh out of her.  “Oh, I wouldn’t.  I go off with half an idea and chaos ensues.  And I may have a fancy honorary, but it comes with nothing but a headache.  The motley crew that agreed to call me friend pulled my ass out of the fire time and again.  I’m really alive because they’re too stubborn to let me die.”  Hawke’s tone was light, but there was affection behind her voice.

“We’re not that different, then.  We bear the titles, but they protect it, us.”  She glanced back where the others were still discussing details.  “We owe them everything.”

“Maker, don’t tell Varric that, he’ll never let either of us live it down.  He still harasses me about a Grace wager from four years ago.   A life? He’ll be insufferable.”

“The secret’s safe with me.  Speaking of safe. . . .”  Rowan met the other woman’s eyes.  “Be careful.  I’d hate to lose a new ally already.  And Varric would never forgive me.”

“No, he wouldn’t.  You’d take away his meal ticket, if I wasn’t alive to lie about anymore.”  She grinned.  “Don’t worry, Inquisatorialness.  I’ll see you in Crestwood.  I’m as curious about this whole ‘Warden mystery’ as you are.”  She opened the door back into the main hall, where Varric looked up from his table, features softening slightly as he caught sight of the Champion.  It was gone in a moment, his typical grin plastered on his face, but Rowan had seen a great deal in that brief second.

“I’ll leave you to your goodbyes.  And feel free to borrow a mount.  Master Dennet won’t steer you wrong.  But avoid the bog unicorn...he’s a bit particular.  Good luck Hawke, and thank you.” She put out her hand and the Champion shook, before she continued on to Solas’ chamber to have a few words about their next journey.

“Bog unicorn?”  she asked when she joined Varric, who put away the letters he was working on.

“Creepy magical shit.  You’d love it.”  He waited, but she wasn’t immediately spilling what the plan was.  That meant one thing.  “You’re leaving.”

“Just going ahead to pave the way for you Inquisition types.”  She tried to be flippant and careless, but the trepidation crept in, the fear no one saw but him.

“Want company?”  He was already reaching down for Bianca, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“A trusty dwarf is always my first choice in traveling companion, but I have to do this alone.  I don’t want to scare off the skittish Warden.”

“Stroud, skittish? A man with that sort of facial hair should have the self-confidence of a dwarven house leader.”  He didn’t like it, but she had her jaw set in that stubborn line that brokered no argument.  His hand moved off of his crossbow, but he didn’t take his eyes off of her. “I’ll see you there, then.  And Marian?”

“I know. Don’t die.”  She squeezed his hand briefly, lingering just a little longer than normal, and then she was gone.  He looked after her quickly retreating form, and then headed through the door after the Inquisitor, who was talking with the bald-headed apostate about something deeply elfish and mystical, he was sure.

They looked up when he entered.  “I’m going with you.”  Solas raised an eyebrow, but Rowan just gave him one of her small knowing smiles.

“Of course you are.”

_______

Swamp. Undead. Swamp. More swamp.

She had left the hart back where the terrain had changed, knowing that the normally sure-footed animal could get fatally stuck in the mud with one wrong move. So now, water and worse was trapped in her boots, making her feet squelch unpleasantly with each step. She was cold, she was wet, she was miserable, and she was livid at the fucking dwarf who had dragged her out of perfectly (teeth-achingly boring) dry Chantry hideout to go traipsing around the soggy back ass of Ferelden.

She didn’t want to traipse anymore, at least not alone. She should have dragged the bastard with her. But that would admit that she needed someone.  Or at least wanted...no.  No, she was just suffering from melancholy, and had gotten rusty from not being out on the road aside from her little trip to Skyhold.  When leaving Kirkwall she had at least had Anders, though that had been its own form of disaster…. She shook her head clear. Down that path lay danger, ending with her curling up in a ball on the ground and screaming until she went mad.  Best to just stay angry.

Her staff got stuck in the mud.  Again.  “Maker take you, you stupid spongy shitty ground!” She pulled on the length of wood and overbalanced, falling flat on her ass.  

She was going to kill him.  “Varric Tethras, you silver-tongued, hairy-chested, sherry-eyed son of a nug humper!”  Flame flicked from her fingertips in her tantrum, but nothing was in danger of catching on fire in the rain-soaked lands surrounding Crestwood.  Significantly heavier now, in drenched and dirty robes, she struggled to her feet and carried on.

The stupid village couldn’t be much farther. It was difficult going when you deliberately didn’t take the roads for fear of anything and everything deciding you were an easy mark or a delicious snack.  Dealing with the occasional wolf was preferable to red lyrium-crazed Templars, who would smell magic on her and crush her without a second thought.  She laughed humorlessly. They wouldn’t even care that she was the Champion of Kirkwall as a reason to kill her.  Her apostate status would be enough. Or just being in their way.

She crested another hill, and saw the treeline clear ahead of her. An odd glow was impossible to miss, and she had a sinking feeling as she approached the edge of what turned out to be an outcropping.

Hawke found herself overlooking a body of water, Lake Calenhad if she would hazard a guess, and smack dab in the middle of it was something that could only be one of the rifts that were plaguing the countryside.

"Well, shit. That's going to take some work." She couldn't do a damn thing about it, and she wouldn’t even be able to let the party that was following behind her know. At least not until she found the actual damn town.

And then she heard the screeching. "Son of a bitch." A hunched and hooded figure had spotted her, even concealed by shrubbery, and flew at her hiding place. Stopping short, it sent a blast of cold at where she had just been standing, leaving the ground a muddy, icy mess. It reared back for another attack, but she ducked under and stuck her staff in its face, concentrating every ounce of cold, miserable, sopping wet rage she had at that moment into a blast of fire that blew the little demon to ichor-coated bits.

It did not help her mood that many of those bits felt obligated to cling to her clothes and hair. She grunted in disgust, scraping the worst of it off, and resigning herself to smelling like the bottom of a lake until she found hot water and a barrel of soap. She could hear Varric’s teasing voice.  _"Maple syrup and demon ooze. Never fails to get in your hair, Hawke. It's like a curse."_

 

"Yeah, well, you charming poor excuse for a best friend, none of this would be happening if I had ignored your damnable 'the world is ending,' note. But no, I'm a sucker for your pretty face and prettier words."

_"Blame me all you want, Hawke. You know you were craving something more than chants and incense."_

"I don’t know if this was what I had in mind." Her feet slipped in the muck. "No, this is not what I had in mind."

_"Well, stop whining and get moving. Or I'm going to start to think you just want to complain."_

"I do, just not to the version of you in my head. I want the one whose neck I can put my hands around."

 _"Really? Is that all you want to do to me?"_ His voice took on a sly, seductive edge. Which was impressive since he wasn't there.

"Oh no. We're not delving into 'Hawke has potentially unexpressed feelings for her dwarf' out here. You have a really shitty sense of timing."

_"You're the one having this conversation with yourself, beautiful."_

"Damn it. No. I have things to do." She crept along the treeline, following parallel to the road until it hit the beach below what she assumed was the town. It looked like something out of Varric's half-hearted attempt at a horror story.

_"Hey, I thought you liked-"_

"Shh. Someone’s coming."

 _"Not actually here, remember?"_  She spotted two armed figures walking along the road out of Crestwood.

"The reports said he was spotted outside of town. He couldn’t have gotten far."

"He's not a young recruit, but we'll find him, and whatever he's been up to."

'Great Stroud, just great. You're supposed to be good at this elusive Warden thing, you wouldn't come to Skyhold, and you've got at least two of them breathing down your neck. And mine, by association.' She waited until they passed far enough along that she couldn’t hear them, and then headed up the road to what passed for the village of Crestwood.

She didn’t count on the corpses. "Oh, come on!" Two disgusting, shambling, bloated former people caught her scent and headed her way. Lighting moving targets on fire was always a risk, but she took it. They were slow movers, and they didn't so much burn as smolder. That allowed her to send a little lightning at them and shock them into oblivion. Not, of course, before one took a slice at her across her ribs, deep enough to have her doubling over as they disintegrated.

Great, she was going to die, alone, from infection, in this soggy wasteland. And she wasn't even going to get to burn Varric’s chest hair off first.

That thought got her back on her feet and chugging a healing draught that gave her the wherewithal to find an overhang that was relatively dry. She pulled her robes off, shivering in the cold and wet. And wonder of wonders, the mending kit that Anders had given her was still intact and dry. _"Something you touched and didn't destroy, imagine that, Blondie."_

Working quickly, she cleaned the wound as well as she could, pouring another potion directly into the cut, hissing at the sting. But it staunched the blood flow and allowed her to bandage her ribs, keeping the area protected from the elements.

"Well, now we can add injury to the list of complaints I have to take out of his hide." Her robes were essentially useless, torn and dirty and bloody as they were. With a sigh, she rolled them into a ball and stuck them in a crevice in the rocks. No need to leave evidence of her passing lying around. "You owe me a new outfit, too, Dwarf."

_"I'll let Rivaini pick it out. She's the one with fashion sense."_

"And a natural inability to buy something without cleavage-baring necklines."

_"I don’t see the problem, here."_

"Well, you wouldn’t.  You'd be looking up from below. And why do you care about my chest, anyway?"  Hawke moved along, more slowly now, finally reaching the entrance to the village. She had planned to skirt the edges and stay out of sight, but the wound in her side said she needed a healer.before moving on to find Stroud and his hideaway.

_"This is your inner dialogue, remember? You obviously want me to care."_

"Or I'm delirious with the pain." There was a door open as she approached, and she knocked on the lintel. The woman looked startled at having anyone who wasn't a townsperson at her home, but Hawke's story about a wounded mount coupled with her bedraggled appearance helped to sell that she meant no harm and was just a stranded traveler.

She had become a skilled liar over the years, and maybe, if they all lived through the latest round of supernatural insanity, she would feel bad about some of the falsehoods. But, with rain running down the back of her neck, and the shock from the gouge she had wearing off, she only felt relief when the woman said she was the healer for the area.

"Corpses. Blighted corpses coming out of the water since the sky tore apart, Messere.  It's a wonder you got away at all." The woman's eyes narrowed. "How did you get away?" She gauged the staff leaning against the wall with some suspicion.

Hawke reached into her bag, with some difficulty, and pulled out a string of little bottles. "Little present a friend of mine put together for me." She held out one to the woman, who read the inscription on the side.

"'When in trouble, throw and run like the Dread Wolf is on your heels.'" The healer, Anka she had said her name was, looked back up. "The Dread Wolf?"

She shrugged. "She's an elf with a sense of the dramatic. But they're effective."

The healer seemed to make the decision to trust her. More fool her, but Hawke wasn't about to dissuade the woman from her opinion. "Tell you what. You leave me one of those, and the recipe if you have it, and we're settled up. You can even stay for the night."

"I'm more than willing to pay you in gold, too." She didn’t want to cheat the woman. She was a liar, not a thief. Usually.

Anka snorted. "Fat lot of good gold does with the dead rising and stores closed, maybe forever. This way I can protect people and if need be, get out of this Maker-forsaken village before we're completely overrun." In her eyes Hawke saw the steely determination that Aveline so often displayed, and she couldn’t say no. Come to think of it, with her red hair and broad build, she looked a bit like the guardswoman, too.

Fortunately Merrill had written the ingredients down. . .sort of. She wrote them once, and then Hawke had stuck around to actually watch her make the stuff, and made the corrections. There were quite a few. “Deal.  But I’ll be better able to get this copied down if I’m a little more put together.”  The wound had stopped bleeding, but it hurt like she was Andraste with her ass on fire, and it was likely sticking to the bandages in a way that was only going to make removal worse.

“Oh, Maker, where’s my head? Of course-what should I call you?”

“Bethany.  Bethany Amell.”  She probably could have used her own out this far from civilization, but it didn’t hurt to be extra careful, especially with the Wardens around.  She sent a silent word of thanks to her sister’s memory for letting her stomp all over her name.

“Let’s get a look at that wound-sssss,” she said as she pulled the wrap back.  “It’s deep, but not infected, not yet at least.” Anka looked up.  “You must have learned a few tricks from a healer in your time.”

“One or two, from a-from an old friend.”  It burned, like a hot poker in her heart.

The healer made short work of the wound, stitching her up quickly and efficiently, and while it hurt, it wasn’t any worse than the wound itself.  Or at least that’s what she kept silently chanting while the needle and thread went through her skin, putting her back together. It was hardly her first time getting sewn up, but she’d been nug-shit drunk the other times, and if it had hurt, it was background noise to the general numbness and joviality of inebriation.  Finally, blessedly, she was done, and Hawke hoped she wasn’t too green from the experience.

“You should lie down, take a rest before heading on, especially in this weather.  Not that it’s likely to change any time soon.” She washed her hands in the basin by her bed, Hawke watching with detached interest as her blood disappeared into the bowl.  “But if you go running back out into this storm now, stitches or not, you’ll be a meal for something before nightfall.  You’re in no shape to go out slinging spells.”  Anka turned to watch her reaction warily, but Hawke just laughed a little.

“You really do remind me of Aveline,” she said.  “I figured you were too smart to be fooled, but I can’t be too careful these days.”  With no little effort, she stood up from the stool she had been perched on.  “I don’t want to cause you any trouble, so I can move on.”

“Nonsense.  My aunt was a mage; I don’t hold to any of that superstitious nonsense about you all being blood-magic craving mad men.  You just have a different set of skills from others, and frankly we can all do our fair share of damage with the talents we have.  You wash up a bit,” she said with a bit of force, wrinkling her nose, “and rest. You can give me the recipe later, and we’ll just be a traveler and a healer conducting a business transaction.”

 _‘Just lie down, you masochist, and let someone help you for once.’_  Oh good, now he was the voice of reason.

“Alright.  I appreciate it.”

_‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’_

_‘You have no idea.’_

Anka gestured to a second basin of water and a cot by the fireplace. Sponge baths did little for demon ooze, but she did the best she could between the limited resources and her throbbing side. Hawke then stretched out, the exertion of the day wearing on her more than she wanted to admit.  It was impossible for her to relax completely; she didn’t remember a day she hadn’t been on the run in years, but she had gotten used to sleeping with one eye open, and took advantage of the warmth and dryness to physically and mentally regroup.  She’d normally use some one of Varric’s books to help lull her to sleep, but she was frankly too sore to keep it upright.

_‘Did I ever tell you about the time-’_

_‘Likely.  But I’m not going to stop you today.’_

‘So there was Alistair, you know, King of Ferelden, close personal friend….’

\-------

She half-expected to be dead when she woke up.  It had been that kind of life, and she had that kind of luck.  But no, Anka had kept her word, and she came to with a bowl of stew by her bedside, the contents of which she was content to let remain a mystery.  It was hot and filling, and that’s really all that counted when one was hungry.

Her side still felt mildly like it was on fire, but the nauseating pain had reduced back to a manageable level, which essentially meant she wasn’t in immediate danger of dying and could move if absolutely need be.  Looking up, the healer had ended up sleeping in the chair in front of the fire, within mere feet of Hawke in case she needed anything.  

She rose tentatively, her side pulling with the movement, but she eventually stood up, and walked over to the small desk by the window, trying not to make any noise.  Copying the recipe for the woman took only a moment, but she lingered over the parchment, the smell of ink and paper making her think of the only home she had.  She cursed her sentimental side, and the bastard who brought it out in her.  

Despite the woman’s earlier protestations, Hawke left a small pile of coins with the paper.  It was the least she could do for not running her through or calling the local authorities when she figured out she was a magic user.  As quietly as she could, she gathered her few belongings, grabbed her staff, and slipped out the door of the small house.

It was still raining.  

“Maker’s balls.  Stroud, you damn well better be able to answer some of my questions.”  She trudged up the out of town, the weather keeping the villagers indoors, allowing her to sludge up the street without attracting any unwanted attention.  Now all she had to do was crawl around the wilderness, hope to stumble across an abandoned bandit hideout, hope it was actually abandoned, and hope it was the right one.

_“With your luck, you’ll end up in a nest of Carta thugs who have a thing for torturing mages.”_

“You’re just a ray of fucking sunshine, Tethras.”

_“It’s what I’m here for.  Eternal optimism and endless adulations."_

“I hate you. You know this, right?”

_“Self-loathing is bad for the soul.  And the digestion.  You’ll get heartburn.”_

"There’s other hair on more sensitive parts of your body. I can scorch that off, too."

Apparently even the voice in her head was terrified by that prospect, because silence reigned as she hunted the outskirts of Crestwood for a cave hiding an outlaw Warden.  Her side ached from the climb and exertion, but she had come too far to give up, and she held out a vague hope that Stroud had a nice, cozy hidey-hole with all the comforts of Hightown. Or at least a roof, because if she didn't get out of the rain soon, she would never be dry again.

The third outcropping was the first good news she'd had since. . .well, since she got her cut of the royalties from the Tale. The hideout looked like all of the other bandit camps she had quickly examined and bypassed, but this one had a little something extra. Carved into the oversized skull that screamed 'danger and mayhem abound herein' was a symbol that would make sense only to her, and would look like gouges to anyone else.  The Kirkwall symbol, a stylized dragon looking much like a sword, with long strokes pointing downward, greeted her. She smiled, wet, sore, and drained to her bones. "Honey, I'm home." She pushed open the door and went to meet her elusive contact.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm Hawke-heavy right now. . .but she insists, rather forcefully, and I must obey.


	17. The Lost Heart Stiffens and Rejoices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our intrepid adventurers reach Crestwood. A Warden tells a story no one wants to hear. Hawke is. . .herself.

The rain irritated everyone.  And since Cassandra and Varric were on sniping terms, it made the trip that much more pleasant.  Solas was at least stoic about the whole thing, but then again, Solas was stoic about most things.

“It is unfortunate that we didn’t receive notification from the Champion about the state of Crestwood’s rift.”  They stood, staring out at the water with its horrid green glow.

“Fortunately, Harding is incredibly efficient and was able to get us word as soon as she set up camp.  Not that I have any more of a clue how to reach it now than I did when I first heard about it.”  Rowan looked over at Varric.  “Is it usual for Hawke to stop communication like this?”

The dwarf glanced up, trying to maintain some level of joviality, but she could see the strain in his eyes and the way he held himself. He shrugged.  “If she thought the threat was too big, or she got caught up in trying not to die, it wouldn’t be surprising that she didn’t send word.”  He was worried, and tried like hell not to be.  “It’s not the first time, and it’s likely not the last.”

The Seeker, meanwhile, was trying her hardest to ignore him, but she couldn’t hold her temper.  “Another set of vagueries from you, Varric.  How hard is it to give a straight answer to us about Hawke?  You claim to know her so well, to be her friend but you don’t know her normal behavior?”

He rounded on the woman, voice low and menacing.  “Listen close, Seeker, so you don’t miss this.  What Hawke does is her choice, not mine.  I kept her from you. I apologize.  But she’s here _now_ , she’s helping _now_ , and no, I don’t like that we haven’t heard from her.  She tends to keep her word, so the silent treatment chafes my ass.”  Cassandra paused, then nodded curtly, which was the closest thing to a truce the two of them were going to likely come to on the road to Crestwood.

The rain had washed away any chance they might have had to follow her trail, as well. The only clue they had that Hawke had made it anywhere near the village was the hart that had been left to graze before the ground turned to swamp.

The reason for the Champion’s lack of ravens became clearer when they ran into the two Wardens patrolling the road outside of town.  They had recognized the Mark on Rowan’s hand before anything else, and paid her a certain amount of deference, but made it clear they were hunting for Stroud, and they would not, could not be put off of their mission.  They did comment on their party being the first outsiders they had run across since they arrived, and Varric smirked a little.  The expression died quickly when they found the corpses with telltale scorch marks on their bodies.  “Shit.”  They were disgusting and disintegrating in the water, but both of the mages recognized the spell signatures, and Varric had been around her long enough to know what her magic looked like.

The rogue started up the hill at a faster pace, surprisingly nimble with his shorter build, and the others had to push to keep up.  “If she’s dead, I’m going to fucking kill her,” he muttered, and Rowan’s heart broke a little at the fear in his voice.

The village looked abandoned. Doors swung wide open or were barred shut with boards and nails preventing entry. It seemed as though the apocalypse had come and gone, the homes in Crestwood silent memorials to unspeakable and indistinct horror.  Knocking on some of the closed off houses yielded nothing but emptiness, or, at one, a cry to get away.

"Maker preserve us, it is even worse than I expected." Cassandra was even disturbed by the graveyard-like feel the town had.

"The dead rising tends to send the heartiest souls scurrying," a voice said, and they turned to one of the previously closed off houses, where a stocky redhead leaned against the frame.

"Aveline?" Varric asked, but quickly caught himself. "Sorry, you just-"

"It's Anka, and you're the second person this week to call me that. I need to meet this woman." Her smile was small, and the dwarf tensed at her next words. "You'd best come in out of the rain, the lot of you."

They followed the redhead into her house, each of them grateful for getting in somewhere dry. "I'm sorry to intrude, but we're looking for our friend, and you seem to be our best link."

"You couldn't forget her. Human sized, giant pain in the ass, no concern for her own safety or well being?"

She studied them warily, finally noticing the Mark and taking a step back. "Oh, Andraste, you're her! Your Worship, thank you for coming. It's been. . .well, you can see how it's been. Anything you're willing to do to help us is welcome more than you know."

The deference people across Ferelden and Orlais showed her was still unnerving. She didn't feel like someone more or better than they were, just an elf trying to make sure the world didn’t rip apart at the seams. She put a hand on the other woman’s arm. "Please, it's Rowan. And yes, I'm more than willing to help any way I can. But we do also need to find our friend.”

“If I knew where she had gotten to, I’d tell you.”  The woman frowned.  “Normally I wouldn’t be so quick to break trust, but if you’re looking for her, she’s either part of the solution. . .or part of the problem.”

“Depends on the day,” Varric muttered, and even Cassandra had to stifle a snort of laughter.

"All I can say is that she got patched up as well as I could make her, let her rest, and when I woke up, she was gone. Left a pile of gold for me, too. Told her she didn't need to, but she seems the stubborn sort."

"You have no idea," Cassandra said, voice flat.

"What do you mean, patched up?" Rowan asked. Varric was still beside her. He may have seen her run through by an Arishok, among other near-death experiences, but that didn't make knowing a friend was injured any easier.

"She'd gotten waylaid by a couple of undead on her way into town. She was lucky they just sliced her up a bit. Could have been much worse. Still shouldn't have gone back out so soon. Probably paying for it now, wherever she is."

"Are there any caves nearby, any places bandits and highwaymen might be able to hide?"  The Seeker had the beginning of an idea, it seemed.

"Oh, a good half dozen or so, I'd say. Everything from cutthroats to cave spiders. It's gotten worse since the dead started rising. People in town started heading for higher ground, which led to more dead people and still no solutions." Anka sighed. "I'm sure no one would be upset if the Inquisition decided to deal with them."

"Sometimes I get the feeling that the Maker is not only fully involved in our lives down here, but he's laughing hysterically at us, too." Varric spotted something familiar on the woman’s desk, and walked over, picking up the small glass vial. "Hmm. If she felt well enough to leave you one of Merrill's accidental strokes of genius, she can't be too far gone." Glancing down at the parchment that had been sitting underneath it, he ran his fingers gently over the handwriting. "How anyone can read her scribbles is beyond me.”  He straightened, and Rowan saw the change come over him; something about finding that tangible bit of Hawke helped strengthen his resolve and shake off the melancholy.  “Come on, Seeker.  The sooner we find her, the sooner you can take another piece out of my hide while she laughs.”

The Inquisitor promised Anka to speak with the mayor and deal with the various problems plaguing the village as soon as they found their companion.  The healer pulled her aside as the others headed out.  “She couldn’t have gone too far with that wound.  I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but, well, you’re the Herald, and I thought you should know.  She’ll likely need more tending if-when you find her.” This was a woman who had seen too much death, but had enough sympathy left to not want others to experience the loss she had.

Rowan nodded.  “We have at least somewhat of a healer with us.  I appreciate you letting me know.”  She smiled slightly.  “She’s got a bit of a reputation for beating the odds, so I’m expecting to be pleasantly surprised.”

“For your sake, I hope she keeps those odds.”  The woman bid the group farewell, and pointed them towards the most likely path Hawke would have taken out of town to reach the series of caves and hideouts that were leftover from the various mining projects in the area.

They were quiet for a while, each lost in their own thoughts of mortality and the troubles that continued to plague each area of Thedas they found themselves in.  Cassandra, oddly, was the first to break the silence.  “Varric.  Despite my...view...of you at the moment, I do not wish ill upon Hawke.”

“That’s awfully big of you, Seeker,” he snapped, but caught himself and shook his head.  “Sorry.  Yeah, I know.  Thanks.”  It wasn’t exactly a reconciliation complete with hearty embracing, but Rowan was frankly thankful for the at least minuscule softening between them. She owed her Commander...something.  She had been hesitant about bringing the Seeker along on this particular trip, planning on taking the more amenable Blackwall, but he had convinced her otherwise.

“Cassandra is mad enough to rip the heads off of every training dummy in the yard. . .and half of the recruits.  She and Varric need to solve this, and avoidance isn’t the answer.”  He sat behind his desk while she paced, nervous energy not allowing her to stop moving.  “He’s the best rogue you have, not that he’d allow you to let him stay behind on this in any case, knowing him, and she’s your strongest sword arm. They’re going to have to work together.  Besides,” he said, a hint of humor in his voice, “out in that desolate area, if they get into a pitched battle, there will be far fewer casualties than there would be here.”

She stopped her path and looked at him, before bursting out laughing, actually having to support herself on his desk, which still wobbled a little, with one hand until she got herself under control.  There had been so much tension she was holding that she became a little hysterical at the remark.  “Oh, Commander, you are wicked,” she said finally, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

“Don’t let anyone in on that secret, Inquisitor.  I must at all times be a model of decorum and upright purpose,” he replied.  

Unsurprisingly, his advice had turned out to be correct, and the two were at least refraining from killing each other, which was measurable progress.  Now all they had to do was fight past the oversized spiders, the bandits, the undead, and the rain, wander about aimlessly for an unknown amount of time, find an apparently grievously injured Champion, keep her from dying, convince a paranoid Warden to assist them in. . .something. . .and they would be well on their way to victory.  She stifled a sigh.

\------

By the fourth cave of bandits, even Cassandra was starting to think that the Maker was attempting to torture them.  She swung her sword in another arc, slicing open the highwayman in front of her.  “To the Void with you!” she cried, wiping the blood and gore out of her eyes.

She huffed, the din dying down as Solas dispatched the last of the bandits with a fizzle of electricity. “This is ridiculous,” the Seeker said, and Rowan looked up from going through the pockets of the corpses, trying to see if there was anything of note on the bodies.  It had all been coin and trinket to that point, and while it was nice to know that money and objects could be returned to the villagers of Crestwood, the lack of Hawke, living or otherwise, was wearing thin.

“We have been all over this countryside, up and down these mountains, and there is nothing to show that the Champion was anywhere near here.  We are wandering aimlessly.”  She was wet, heavy with the rain soaking into the padding between her and her armor, making every movement an extra effort that any warrior would balk at.  It incensed her, made her want to lose her temper and lash out.  She knew she could be. . .difficult, but it was infuriating when expediency had to be set aside for the sake of, well, anything.  

The Inquisitor approached her, placed a gentle hand on her arm.  “We will find her, and we will get out of this Maker-forsaken rain. I’m running out of patience, myself.”  She said this, but somehow the elf always seemed to maintain a certain level of calm around her.  Cassandra was loathe to admit she was envious, but she knew could use some of that semblance of balance in her life.

“And if we don’t, you can always take a shot at me, Seeker.  It’ll help take the edge off.”  Every word the dwarf spoke grated on her nerves.

“I do not need to ‘take a shot’ at you, Varric.  I have myself perfectly under control,” she responded, between clamped teeth.  Honestly, he acted as though she was going to actually decapitate him, and while the thought had crossed her mind more than once, she was absolutely able to control her baser instincts.  And she doubted very much that Rowan would appreciate her doing so.

"Aha!" The Inquisitor pulled a roll of parchment from a dead man's pocket.

Varric glanced over. "What's up, Frost?" He had been testing out a litany of nicknames for the Inquisitor throughout the trip, likely to distract himself from his companion's silence.

"No," Rowan rejected calmly, and continued. "It's a map." She unrolled the sheet, and studied it for a minute. "Am I reading this right?"

Cassandra leaned over the woman, looking at where her fingers traced an unmarred section of the topography. "It seems that one of the caves by the mines is not occupied as the others are."

"I wonder why," Varric said dryly. "My bet. . .crazy Wardens and crazy bandits don't play nice."

"Let us go, then, Lethal'lan. The sooner we find the Warden, the closer we'll get to solving the mystery of their disappearance." Solas peered out of the cave, a slight frown marring his features. It was one of the few times the Seeker had seen him express more than a detached indifference to the world at large.

"What has you worried, hahren?" Rowan responded, watching him carefully. The Inquisitor always seemed to watch, to study each of them, like a mother or older sister, making sure that they were as content as could be. She strove for harmony among her people, something Cassandra respected greatly.

The apostate shook his head. "Nothing in particular. There is just. . .something off about this entire situation that has me disconcerted.”

“I do not like it, either, to be fair,” Cassandra interjected.  “There are too many variables, and we are too exposed.  There are any number of threats that could attack at any moment, and we would be none the wiser.  Scout Harding and those under her command have done a fine job, but with the number of caves and hiding places, it would be impossible to guess at what’s waiting for us.”

Rowan nodded.  “We’ll have to be on high alert. . .not that we aren’t already.”  She sighed at the perpetually gray sky.  “Shall we?”  

They moved their way along the foothills, following the path the map outlined.  And, cresting the hill, they found the source of their discomfort.

“Nug fucking sons of bitches.”

Cassandra had to agree, despite the colorful language.  “Red lyrium.  This means that Red Templars cannot be far behind.”

“Or far ahead.” Solas pointed to a spot in the distance.  “There.  At least two of them, and directly where we need to be.”

“Well of course.  Why would this be easy?”

\-----

Rowan wiped the sweat off of brow and stared down at the body of the Templar. “Nuva uralas telsyl na i’ga syl nyel laimem!”  Solas raised an eyebrow at her particularly colorful curse. She was tired of fighting.  She wanted to find Hawke.  She wanted to be out of the rain.  She wanted a great many things she was not going to get at the moment.

The second Templar approached, grotesque face snarling as it swung its way towards her.  Bianca sang her deadly tune as bolts shattered  against the lyrium coating around the man-beast.  Cassandra’s blade danced and her shield countered the blows as the two mages rained spells down on its head.  Nothing seemed to penetrate the shield of glowing red that covered the creature that used to be human.

Behind the defense that Cassandra provided, Rowan closed her eyes and found the quiet point in the center of her being that fed her magic, when she needed something beyond her memorized spells to power her work.  She assumed each mage had something similar inside of them, but only her Keeper had spoken of it, and then only in passing; so much of what she did was a result of trial and error.  Her power appeared as a multi-faceted snowflake in the midst of a grey fog, and it shimmered from an internal light, almost blindingly beautiful to behold. Touching it with her mind, she pulled against the core of energy, letting it manifest in her hand.  The indistinct swirl slowly grew, and she placed a second palm atop it to steady the ball of power.  

She felt the brush of his magic curl around hers, and his fingers supported the sides of the orb, green light covering the blue of her spell, shaping into something more beautiful and deadly than either created on their own.  He nodded to her, and she let go, the release almost audible, launching the sphere of magic at the creature.  It gained speed as it headed towards her intended target, plowing through the center of the Templar, ripping it apart and shattering its shield.

Cassandra and Varric took the opening, the Seeker slicing into skin as bolts sank deeply into its flesh. It screamed as it died, this creature born of arrogance and avarice, and she wanted to weep for the person it had been, but it would have to wait for another time, when less was at stake, and she could indulge in sorrow. Her loathing for Corypheus grew with each life she was forced to take, each being he turned and corrupted.  She wouldn’t hate, wouldn’t give into the basic emotion that would wrest control from her and give it to the Elder One.  But she would skirt that razor’s edge until he was gone from Thedas, and she had no qualms about his ultimate destruction.  And in a way, maybe that was worse.

“Maker, Inquisitor, that was a hell of a snowball you threw at him,” Varric said, pulling her out of her introspection and back to the task at hand.  “Remind me not to piss you off without Hawke around with a fireball on hand.”  He thought for a moment.  “Though if I’ve made you that angry, chances are I’ve done worse to her.  So, remind me not to piss you off, period.”

The mention of Hawke had her scanning the road around them, and she peered back toward the cliffs.  They had overshot the cave deliberately when they had spotted the Templars, knowing that if they had to bring the Champion out injured, it would be far worse to try and take them on after the fact.  The way was clear, though they almost tripped over the body of what appeared to be one of Leliana’s agents.  The crimson shards through his chest made her leery of touching him, but Varric’s gloved hands made quick work of his pockets, and he found what looked like official papers that he handed off to her to be scanned later.  More dead, another notch to add to her tally of countless corpses she had to go along with her position.

“Those thoughts are for later, Da’len,” Solas said.  Something in her face must have shown for him to use the gentle diminutive on her.  She nodded.

“You’re right, of course.”  She led the way up the hill, putting the thoughts aside again.  It was a hard day, it seemed, and it wasn’t going to get easier until they had some good news to temper the bad.

Good news seemed in short supply, however.  When they reached the entrance of the hideout, there was no sign of Hawke, and it was deathly quiet.  Varric swore under his breath, and Rowan looked around, but the dwarf had already reached down and picked up something that had been leaning next to the door.  In his hand was a copy of Tale of the Champion, what appeared to be an elaborately illustrated edition for- “Well, she’s here, at least.”  What didn’t sit well with her were the blood stained fingerprints on the peppering the cover.

\------

He held Bianca in one hand, the blasted book in the other, and his heart in his throat.  “Every fucking time.  Every time I say ‘sure, go off on your own,’ you idiot, you end up half dead, half crazy, or worse.”

It was torture waiting for the others to go through the door while after he checked for traps, something he just did without thinking after years of practice and more than one pair of scorched pants.  Finally, finally they went through the opening, and he scanned ahead, looking for someone he couldn’t live without and wanted to kill.

“Welcome to the party,” came a weak voice from up ahead, and it took everything he had not to burst forward like his ass was on fire to find her.  

“Fucking great, Hawke,” he heard himself saying, relief turning to anger.  “How long have you been sitting in here by yourself, bleeding to death?” They entered the opening in the back of the cave, torches throwing shadows everywhere, hiding her from his wrath.

“Oh, you know, two days or so. But I’m not by myself, remember, Tethras?”  The sound of a sword unsheathing drew his attention from the dialogue with the disembodied voice of his Champion.  “I have a friend.”

The blade was pointed at Rowan, and within a beat Varric had trained Bianca on the wielder, a glorious mustache with a Warden attached to it.  “You’d be best served to put that back in its sheath, Stroud.”  The others had taken up offensive stances, while the Inquisitor just stood, a slight tremor in her hands the only thing betraying her appearance of calm.

“Warden, these are my friends, the ones I’ve been telling you about, and you must remember Varric, or at least his mouth. Or maybe the chest hair.”  Hawke’s voice was thready, but she continued.  “Put the oversized dagger away and let’s chat like we’re all on the same side, which, you know, we are.”  A groan echoed across the walls, and after some shuffling noises, she appeared from behind a wooden partition.  

She was paler than usual, skin blotched red from the exertion of standing, and she was using the wall to hold herself up before stumbling to a chair, where she sat heavily, wincing at the jolt it sent through her.  Stroud looked aside at her, sword still trained on the Inquisitor, but she waved him off. With what Varric could tell was great reluctance, he put the sword away.

“Apologies, Inquisitor, but one cannot be too careful these days.  Jean-Marc Stroud, Grey Warden, at your disposal.”

“Understand I got no such greeting,” Hawke grinned. . .or grimaced, it was hard to tell.  “I got a twitch of facial hair and ‘You’re bleeding on my dirt floor.’ Then I passed out, so I’m not sure what came next, but I’m guessing it wasn’t nearly as polite.”

Solas had already moved to the Champion’s side at Rowan’s gesture, and was attempting to examine her wound.  She was swatting him away. “It’s a scratch, damn your pointy ears, I’m fine.”  The unflappable elf scowled at her, and if Varric hadn’t been so angry, he would have laughed at the expression.  She had the effect on people.

“Hawke.  Shut the hell up and let Chuckles do his thing.”  He didn’t have patience for her antics.  He was too pent up about her well-being to do anything other than snap at her.  She likely had a retort at the ready, but held her tongue at the look on his face, and condescended to let the apostate work his magic.

Rowan may have been Herald and Inquisitor and may have been on some holy mission to stop Corypheus from destroying them all, but she made damn sure Hawke was well on her way to being patched up before talking to Stroud.  Finally, she turned to him, and Varric figured that he was a goner just like the rest of them when he locked eyes with hers.  She did that.  

“Warden Stroud, we appreciate any assistance you can provide us.”

Then he let drop the secret that answered a slew of questions, and created almost as many new ones.  “All of you are hearing the Calling?”  Solas paused from his work and looked at the man as Rowan leaned against the table to steady herself.  “That’s. . .I don’t even know what that is.”

“Unprecedented, my lady.  And with deadly consequences.  This has Warden-Commander Clarel using blood magic in an attempt to stop the Blights once and for all.”

“Felasil,” Solas practically spat.  If that was elven for idiot, Varric agreed.

“Well, that sounds like one of the stupider things someone could do.”

Stroud’s face fell.  “I didn’t put it in such words, but I attempted to dissuade her from this path, and for my troubles I was branded a traitor and am now hunted.”

“Which is why we’re now standing, myself excluded, in a cave in the rainiest part of Ferelden, possibly of Thedas.”   Hawke hissed at something Solas did.  “Why does it smell like wet leaves and fur in here?” The mage put a hand on her head - “Hey!” - and she slumped over slightly.

“What the hell did you do, Chuckles?”

“I moved her out of her own way, Master Tethras.”  His voice was even, but Varric knew there had to be a hint of sarcasm in there somewhere.

“I wouldn’t want to be you when she woke up.”

“I will simply tell her it was your idea.”  There, there it was, just the slightest touch of wit, with teeth.

“Maker’s balls.  Just keep her sedated long enough for me to convince her it was a good one.”

Cassandra cleared her throat, which was most definitely a threatening noise in the small enclosure.  “If we could get back to the matter at hand,” she said, her words clipped.  “What should our next course of action be?”

“As far as I can see, it’s two fold.  We need to get Hawke out of here and back to Skyhold, and we need to see if we can stop what’s happening with the Wardens before it gets any worse.  If Corypheus is controlling them, he has two armies at his disposal now, both with formidable skill and power.”  The Inquisitor sighed, realizing the size of the task at hand.

“I would say it will be another day before the Champion is stable enough to make any sort of journey.  More if we want to be cautious.”

She nodded, seeming to come to a conclusion.  “Alright.”  She turned to the Warden. “Stroud, if I sent you with a contingent of scouts and soldiers to the Western Approach, where you believe the Wardens are assembling, would you be willing to do so and report back to us?”

He put his fist to his chest.  “I wish only to serve and stop this destruction.”

“Then we’ll hopefully take care of the other problems in Crestwood before we head back to Skyhold, since Hawke needs time.  It will take some a while for you to get to the Approach, I know.”

“May I recommend Scout Harding for this particular endeavor, Inquisitor?” The Seeker had grabbed onto the idea, it seemed, especially since it involved action instead of strategy and planning.

“Yes, I think Lace would be the best person to lead the group for Stroud.”  Rowan smiled gently at the imposing Warden, and Varric could see his features soften.  Even the small animal on his face perked up in response to her attention.  “You’ll like her, Warden.  Smart, sarcastic, and willing to do what it takes to get the job done.”

“She sounds admirable, Herald.”

“She is.  Just don’t conscript her out from under me.”

“My word as a Warden.” Varric bit his tongue on his current opinion of that particular oath.  Stroud was a good man, and he wanted to do the right thing.  

And he had kept Hawke alive.  

He glanced over to where Solas was putting the final touches on the area around the wound, wrapping a clean bandage in place and straightening her clothes.  Without being asked, Varric moved to her side, and with a nod from the elf, rested Bianca on the table and lifted her limp form.  “They must have been stuffing your face with Orlesian pastries at the Chantry.”  In truth, her weight was negligible to him, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she weighed as much as a Mabari.  This was Hawke, and she was his responsibility.

“Bet Blondie never carried you around like this,” he muttered as he deposited her on the cot behind the wooden wall, and pulled the blanket up around her shoulders.  “You probably hauled his ass up and down mountains while he railed about mage rights.”

“I suspect she’d tell you if you asked,” Rowan said from behind him.  “And it would likely make a spectacular addition to your Tale.”  She had brought a chair from the other side, and placed it beside him.  “I thought, since you’re staying here, you might want a place to sit.  Just so you know when she’s awake and you can tell her what you really think about her going off on her own.”

“Everyone’s just full of wit and one-liners today.  I’m going to start feeling inadequate,” he replied, but took the seat she offered.  “And thanks, Inquisitorialness.”  

She put a hand on his cheek briefly, and smiled softly like she held the wisdom of the ages, but her eyes flashed with a hint of mischief. “Anytime, Author. Anytime.”

He chuckled, and it felt good to laugh, to take a little of the tension out of his body. “Author, huh?  It’s apt, if a little lacking in creativity.”

“I’m new at this. Give me a bit of time.”

“You’ve got until the end of the world.”

“I’ll just have to put a stop to that, then.”

She left him then, wanting to get back to the base camp and have them move operations before it became too late in the day.  She warned of the ward she was placing on the door, which would essentially seal them in until either Hawke awoke to break it or she returned, whichever came first.  He didn’t point out that it could happen that neither option would come to pass, because if that was the case, he’d prefer starving to death slowly in a cave over the alternatives.

Looking over, he saw the dog-eared book on the crate that stood in for a nightstand. “;Swords and Shields?' Really, Marian?” He tsked her.  “I thought you had better taste than that.  This is complete garbage, you know.”  Still, he picked it up, and started from where she had bookmarked.

“‘The Knight-Captain heaved, her ample cleavage barely contained by the chainmail she wore.’ Who wrote this? ‘“How could you?” she cried, and he watched a bead of sweat travel from the dip in her throat down through the valley between her breasts, feeling his own temperature rise as he envied the drop of liquid and its sensual journey.’  No, really, this is ridiculous.  You actually like this, or were you just using it as more ammunition against me?”

Semi-conscious, Hawke heard the commentary to his own story, and smiled to herself. She knew that she would both relish the fact that he was reading to her, and torment him unceasingly about exactly what he was reading aloud when she could expend the energy to do more than be lulled by his voice.  And silently plot what wrath she'd unleash upon that self-righteous shiny-headed elf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felasil does basically mean idiot or fool. 
> 
> Nuva uralas telsyl na i’ga syl nyel laimem! : May nature strangle you with all the air you have wasted.
> 
> The awfulness of Swords and Shields has intrigued me for quite some time. I had to try my hand at the wretchedness. :)


	18. All This Stood Upon Her And Was The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moves are made, tallies are counted, and almost everyone is a victim of Hawke's bad temper.

"I don't understand, Inquisitor. Did I do something wrong?"

"Oh, Maker and Creators, no, Harding!" Rowan was shocked by the hurt look on the dwarf's face. "You're the person I trust the most with this task. Stroud doesn’t know any of us, and he's a bit. . .overly cautious. You're very easy to get along with, and you're very knowledgeable about, well, everything."

"Oh.  Oh, I see." She obviously didn't see. The Inquisitor put her arm around the smaller woman and steered her away from the group.

"I still have to go to Halamshiral, but we need to get Stroud to the Western Approach swiftly and safely. Normally Hawke would go with him, but with her injuries, it's just not possible." She smiled down at her. "As far as I can tell, Lace, you are one of the most knowledgeable and likable people in all of the Inquisition. Quite simply put, you’re my best scout. There is no way that even Warden Stroud can resist both your abilities and charms."

That perked up the scout. "That sounds like a challenge, Inquisitor." Her smile was a little wicked. "Yes, we'll see if I can get his mustache to crack a smile."

"I expect a full progress report on that front, Harding."

"Oh, of course, your Worship." Harding straightened and headed right to the Warden to start on her mission.  "Warden Stroud? I have a few questions for you."

Rowan took a deep breath, then tried to relax the tension locked in her shoulders.  "Maker." The distinctive sound of Cassandra's armor let her know that the Seeker was approaching. "Does it get any easier?"

"The battles? No." She could always count on the woman to be bluntly honest.  "It does not improve with time. In fact, it may get worse, because it is harder to see the point of the slaughter."

"That's what I was afraid of." She turned and looked up at Cassandra. "How do you keep going?"

She grunted. "I wonder that myself. Sometimes I wonder what the Maker has planned in all of this bloodshed. But our cause is just and noble. We must defeat Corypheus, and you will lead us there."

"I'm glad one of us is sure of that."  She sighed.

"Oh yes. There is one thing I am sure of, and that is you." The absolute conviction in the Seeker’s voice took her breath away.

"I just hope I prove worthy-"

"You died for us, or near enough as to be almost indistinguishable.  You have already proven yourself worthy." There was that steel in her voice, and it would allow for no argument.

"Thank you," she replied, unsure of what else could be said.

"It is the truth. Now, what is our next course of action here?"

Rowan laid out her plans, chief among them closing the rift in the water that was making the dead rise. It had to be done without Varric, which she didn't like, but the addition of Stroud's sword arm would lend assistance they desperately needed.

The Seeker nodded, giving a few 'suggestions' that had some force behind them, but she didn’t mind, and the ideas she had made sense. "Well, I think that's the best we can hope for, with all of the unknowns waiting in that keep."

Crestwood’s mayor hadn't been particularly helpful on that front. There was a fortress. It was filled with bandits. The way to drain the lake was through said fortress filled with bandits. The mechanism for draining it was broken. He seemed almost reluctant to stop the encroaching horde, which unsettled her, but one thing Rowan had learned was to deal with one mystery at a time.

\------

"I'm not reading any more of that trash to you! You seem to like it far too much for someone I thought was intelligent."

"Then hand it over, and I'll read it myself. Or better yet, I'll read it to you. You can lie back and think of your crossbow."  Hawke was feeling better, which meant she was bored, which meant she was being a war nug-sized pain in the ass.

"This trash is terrible for your health. I should know, I wrote it."

"Really?" Hawke's eyebrows reached her hairline. "I thought some other dwarf with an over inflated opinion of his chest hair named Varric Tethras was the author. Was I wrong?"

He was a breath away from tossing the book in the corner of the cave, almost guaranteeing that it would be safe from her, but two things stopped his hand. One, no matter how bad it was, it was still a book, and worthy of respect, and two, he had no assurances that Hawke wouldn’t kill herself trying to crawl over to retrieve it, just to piss him off. "Fine. One more chapter, but if you die from the bad writing, I am not to blame."  He gave his erstwhile best friend a hard stare. "And lay back. You'll pull your stitches."

"You mean the new ones Chuckles the Egg-headed Elf put in after he spell-shocked me?" Her gaze narrowed. "Are you sure you didn't tell him to do that?"

"I sure as hell know better than to cross you when you're injured. You're like a wounded bear, only meaner."

"Damn straight," she grumbled, but settled back against the pillow. For all of her posturing, she was just on the right side of an eternal trip to the Void, and she knew it.

"Where were we? Let's see...heaving bosoms, barely restrained passion, tumescent members...." He flipped through the pages. "Ah, here we go. 'The Knight-Captain pulled her swollen lips from-'"

A sound at the front of the cave stopped him. "Saved by invaders." In one fluid motion he brought Bianca to bear and trained her through an open space in the makeshift wall they were behind.  Hawke shifted as though she was going to move, but he stopped her with a gesture. "Wait," he breathed, and she did. There was one thing they never joked about, and that was battle strategy. One called the shot and the other followed.

"It's us, Varric," came the Inquisitor's voice echoing down the cave.

"What's the password?"

"There is no password, you irritating man."

"Hello, Seeker," he responded, and relaxed his finger on the trigger. He heard Hawke lay back with a barely audible groan. He wanted to turn and check on her-she hadn’t been out of his sight for two days-but they had been fooled before by supposed allies, and he knew better than to give them an opening.

"Is that piss-poor excuse for an apostate with you?" Hawke called, and Varric swore he actually heard Solas' teeth grind together.

"Are your wounds healing satisfactorily?" he responded, voice as mild as ever.

"Oh, they're just dandy. Why don't you come verrry close and I'll show you just how well they're doing." Her voice was poisoned sugar, and Varric felt bad for the poor bastard.

"I believe you are of sufficient skill to tell for yourself.  Though it's possible I misjudged you," he replied smoothly. He was impressed; Chuckles knew how to play by their rules, and he wasn't half bad. But he still hadn't faced-

"Look, you bald son of a bitch, if you ever do anything like that again I'm going to feed your ass to the next nasty-looking meat eater that comes along, and give it a toothpick afterwards. Understood?" Her wrath.

He smiled. "Maker, I missed your mouth."

"You can't miss what you've never had, my dwarven friend." Varric winced. He had caught her on the downswing of her tirade and forgot to duck. As it was, he was glad he was facing away from her so she couldn’t see the color rise in his face. There was a choking sound from the other side of the wall that sounded suspiciously like Cassandra.

"Feeling better, are we, Hawke?" Rowan asked, finally appearing around the corner. The Herald was muddy and bruised, but otherwise seemed to be unharmed.

"Like a corpse took a piece out of my side, but other than that. . . I've had worse," she ended on a shrug that made her wince. He noticed that Hawke gave Rowan a little more deference than she did everyone else, which was none. He suspected he actually respected the woman; he'd have to ask her later. When she wasn’t flinging barbs that were quite as sharp.

He also noticed that the mud and slime on the Inquisitor's outfit was isolated to her hands and knees. "How many this time?" he asked.

"Only twice. I was rather proud of my relative balance." The tally had started when it became obvious Rowan didn’t have the fabled poise of her Dalish brethren.  Originally a way to distract themselves from the grim task of hunt, fetch and slaughter, counting had become a ritual by this point, one they both took seriously.

"I have no idea what's going on, but if it's a wager,  I want in."

"Isabela is the worst thing to happen to your wallet since your Mabari dug up the old Viscount's orchids."

"You only think that because of the five you say I owe you."

"Ten. And we're keeping a running count of the number of times her Exalted Inquisitorialness falls on her ass."

The laughter was couched by moans of pain. "Oh, I like her; she's most definitely one of us. Can we keep her?"

Rowan blushed, and for a moment Varric had thought they had embarrassed her. But the small, wistful smile and almost greedy look in her eyes at Hawke's words reminded him that acceptance seemed to be a new concept for the elf. "I don't think Daisy would mind another Dalish."

"Merrill would shower her with affection and small furry animals."

"And blood magic, too, no doubt," the Seeker said stonily. "Is the Champion in a condition to be moved?"

Business had returned. "I don't know; are the dead still rising?"

Both Inquisitor and Seeker looked somewhat shaken before they responded, filling the two of them in on what had happened in Old Crestwood - the spirits, the rifts, the skeletons of too many dead - as Solas, cautiously, and with several dark looks from his patient, checked on and continued healing Hawke's wounds.

"And the mayor knew about this the whole time?"

"He's the one who flooded the town,” Rowan said, her voice grim.

“Well. . .shit.”

“Yes, exactly.” Varric could tell that the Seeker was barely holding her temper together; he felt he was a bit of an expert on that front.  “At least we are not leaving the town undefended. The keep has been emptied of bandits, and the Inquisition can set up a presence that will hopefully allow them to stay secure in the days to come.”  She seemed tired. . .no, worn down.  He knew that constantly being disappointed by the behavior of others weighed on your soul.

“Then yes, I’m more than ready to get out of this Maker-blasted cave.”  She glared at the elf who had his hand on her abdomen. “Are you quite through poking and prodding me?”

Solas seemed on the verge of saying something, but he visibly restrained himself.  He readjusted her clothes, and stepped away.  “You are as patched up as I am able to make you here, and you should be able to travel back to Skyhold.  But anything more is out of the question if you wish to make a full recovery.”

“Convalescence, my favorite,” she grated.  “That’s up there with diplomatic dinners for activities only slightly above death.”

“Yeah, yeah, bitch all you want.  You’re alive, and if you can keep from setting yourself on fire between here and the Hold, you’ll stay that way.  Not that I have a lot of faith you can do that.”  Varric took her poor temper in stride; he’d spent enough time with her that anger was her way of avoiding her mortality.

\------

With more than a little grumbling, they got the Champion up and moving at an excruciatingly slow pace.  Rowan could feel the frustration rolling off of the other woman; she was like an impatient Cassandra, which was impressive in and of itself.

“Come along, oh Exalted One,” Varric said blithely, but he kept a supportive hand on her back, and Hawke, for all of her bluster, didn’t pull away.

She and the rogue headed back first, and Rowan made sure that plans were in place before returning with Cassandra and Solas.  Riding out through Crestwood wasn’t pleasant; the combination of the flotsam smell from the newly exposed river bed and the skeletal remains of the original town made for a decaying reminder of the horror that had occurred there. And it was not caused by any Darkspawn, not directly, nor from mad Templars or an Elder One.  No, it was a normal person, driven by fear and supposedly the best laid plan to save his town that caused the death of so many.  It was a sobering reminder that it wasn’t just the supernatural they were fighting against as the Inquisition.

“We need to find the mayor.  We have to have answers, or some sort of closure for these people.”

“Leliana’s agents will know where to look; we sent the ravens, and I have no doubt she already has her scouts hard at work finding him to bring to justice.”

Rowan wanted to ride on, to leave the place behind, but that forced her to bring her hart up short as the reached the hill overlooking the wreckage of so many lives.  She took it all in, made herself look and remember.  “There is no justice, and I will not have vengeance.”  A sigh, and then she pulled her mount back to the road, her other two companions silently flanking her, as they made their way back to a place she called home, where she also had to make terrible, impossible decisions with the best of intentions.


	19. I will show you fear in a handful of dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't take the Fade to create nightmares, sometimes our own minds contain enough terror to hold us hostage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't typically do this, but there are warnings for those who live with panic disorder or similar issues. I triggered myself writing this, hence the warning.

Cullen had started watching for her arrival back from her trips while they were still in Haven.  Somewhere along the line at Skyhold it had become habit.  Since their “conversation” on the battlements, it had become a necessity. His heart sped up, and the tension in his limbs increased each time, making the siren song of the blue bottle that much sweeter.

They had been gone longer than they had expected; Hawke had, unsurprisingly, run into trouble in Crestwood, so the route back was significantly longer than the one there.  He appreciated the Champion coming in and assisting, of course, but where Marian Hawke went, trouble followed.  And it was usually large and imposing and made a bloody mess before she was done.

“Maker’s breath.”

“Waiting, watching, worrying.  The time flows more slowly. . .molasses, slower. . .sweet, sticky syrup.” Something else that had become a normal part of his vigil was Cole, who came and shared his. . .unique. . .company with the Commander.  Together, they let the world fade into darkness, the hope for her return burning brightly, but tempered by the fear that this could have been one battle, one time too many, and she was never coming home.  Eventually, the taciturn young man disappeared, and he was left to his ruminations.

Those were the nights when the desire demon still had its claws in him, and he never left Kinloch, never escaped the unceasing torture.  He’d wake up, drenched in sweat, the feel of its fingernails like silk and acid on his skin, whipping him into a frenzy of unwanted lust and terror and pain that had him crying out to “ _Please Maker make it stop!_ ”

But there was no one to hear. His cries were absorbed by the stone walls.

And in those nights, the panic would wrap around his heart like a painless fist, stealing his breath and making him unable to fight, to run away, to give pursuit to his terror.  One fear piled on top of another, chasing in an endless circle, spiraling higher and higher in his mind until they reached a crescendo that crashed down over him, setting his nerves on fire and reducing him to a quivering mass of humanity. It was as though all control over his mind was lost, and he could do nothing but ride the wave of misery, repeating convulsions of painless, fully conscious seizures.  There was no enemy to raise a sword against but his own mind, no shield he could conjure to protect himself from the onslaught of memory and tragedy.

Over and over the cycle continued, and at any moment he was sure his heart would burst from fright.  Highs and lows continued for what felt like hours but may have only been minutes.  Time didn’t matter, nothing did but escaping from the monster of fear that pressed itself into his chest and attempted to smother him.  But it didn’t, and that was perhaps worse.  Knowing that it was all in his mind, that he could control it if he just knew how, if he was strong enough.  Knowing he wasn’t strong enough to battle his own emotions; the lyrium had dulled so much for so long, he didn’t truly remember the extent of the damage from his ordeal until he had started purging it from his system. Like a drug, the lyrium soothed the worst of the terrors and the tremors, at the cost of losing a part of his personality, part of his soul.

But it was so easy.  So simple, that bittersweet taste as it dulled away the roughness of panic, that caused that fuzziness at the edges of his mind that let him do his duty.  And didn’t he have a duty, to the Inquisition, to the soldiers, to her? Wouldn’t he be better served to remove the nightmares while they saved the world, and dealt with the aftermath of his addiction at a later date?  He could still break away, but later. . .when it wasn’t so important that the shakes and the tremors and the sleeplessness didn’t destroy him from the inside, that his own mind didn’t betray him.

_Cullen_. That voice in his head, cool as the wind over the snow on the Frostbacks.  There was no censure in her voice, no disappointment.  His name was simply a reminder of who he was to her.  He was not the Commander, he was not a soldier.  He was a man, and as he had granted her some salvation from her own pain and guilt, so the memory of her gentleness eased back the shroud of terror that had swaddled him to near insanity.

Moments. . .thoughts of her like bricks to build a wall, kindling to light a fire that drove back the darkness of his fear and despair.  

When Corypheus attacked, and she walked out of the Chantry, straight and tall, not unafraid, of course she was terrified, but still she went, and saved them all, faced the monster that wanted her very essence, so that others could be free, even if it had cost her her life.  Maybe she had died, for a moment; even she couldn’t remember what had happened between the avalanche and her awakening in that cave.

Then to see her cresting that hill, the glow of her Mark the only thing that let them find her as they took their search party through the paths that they had come through.  They had all held out that tentative thread of hope that she would return to them.  And that thread pulled taut, led them to her.  And he had wanted to carry her, to bring her back to them, but the withdrawals and the exhaustion prevented it, so Cassandra had taken her arm around her shoulder and brought her back to camp, resolutely not making a noise that would give away any sign of discomfort in doing so.

The breathing came a little more easily to him as the memories continued, some small, a smile he had received from her for a trifle that coated his broken heart like the sweetest balm. A wicked grin when she played chess within an inch of her life and came up victorious.  The look in her engrossing blue eyes when he smirked at her, as though she had found something she thought lost for too long.  The scent of her hair, wintry evergreen, when he held her that night under the stars, singing an old song that brought her the peace she had been lacking.  

His fists clenched and unclenched, driving the numb tingling from his limbs as he slowly came back into himself.  The taste of her lips, somehow cold and warm at the same time, crisp like a fall apple before the first frost claims it.  She filled his every sense, driving back the fear, building that fortification against unrepentant terror, at least for the evening, granting him rest when nothing else would, nothing else could.  The remembrance of her was enough to give him the calm that would not come otherwise.

“Cullen.”

His eyes shot open, and he was sure at that point he had in fact crossed over, because she stood there like a dream, a memory, only much more solid than a fantasy, even bathed in shadows from the starlight that streamed in.

“Rowan?”  His mouth formed the words, but he wasn’t sure if it was more than a thought of her name rather than any actual speech.

“Cole. . .told me. I’ve only just arrived.”  She moved towards the bed, and he still couldn’t see her face.  He felt a tendril of that fear start to curl up again.  Was it a trick, was he truly still trapped in that Maker-forsaken hell?  Something on his face must have told her there was a problem, because she stopped her approach.  “I’m real, I promise.” She held up her left hand, and the small breach in her palm pulsed and sparked and sputtered.  He could see her face in that light, and it was the mild self-effacing look that convinced him it was her, far more than a green glowing sigil.

“You didn’t have to come, I-”

She continued her approach, unabated by his attempted assurance.  “Of course I had to come.  You are the Commander of the Inquisition.” Rowan ticked off points on her fingers.  “You are my friend, who has saved me innumerable times, as I have said.” Another finger curled around the Mark. “You are someone in need, and I may be able to help.” A third. “I. . .care. . .for you, rather a lot.”  Just her thumb left.  “I had to see your face before I could be at peace tonight.”  Her fist covered the majority of the mark, so only the slightest glow shown through.  She quirked a small smile at him.  “Are those sufficient reasons, Commander?”  She stood standing at the side of the bed, not moving, merely waiting.

He took a deep breath to steady himself.  Then another.  “I. . .thank you.  Yes, they will be sufficient.”  Cullen hesitated, and she took the opportunity to sit on the edge of the bed, and remove her boots.  Wordlessly, she moved to him, slid behind his head, and curled one arm around his chest, pulling him back against her.

“Sleep,” she said softly, “and I will keep guard.”  Her voice took a stern tone.  “But if you don’t wake up in the morning, I will declare this bed cursed and have it burned immediately.”  Her cool hand brushed his temple, and he relaxed into the touch, even chuckling a little at the image of the bed being tied to a stake and set on fire.  It helped.  She helped.  And eventually, with her humming a tune he knew but couldn’t quite place, he slept, and the terror was again at bay.

 


	20. The awful daring of a moment’s surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan gets a rude awakening in the name of fashion. Hawke has a tendency to bring out the worst in people.

Halamshiral became a dirty word around the keep.  There was a constant stream of lessons, etiquette rules tacked to boards throughout each room, and the tailors, Gods and Maker, the tailors.  

“What color do you want your gown to be?”  Rowan had finally been unable to escape the woman with the pins and measuring tapes, mostly due to being ambushed in her room while she was sleeping.  She looked up groggily from her bed, which had somehow been changed over to some ostentatious Orlesian confection while she was in Crestwood.  She sighed.  It was as though Skyhold was slowly turning into the Empire, at least on an aesthetic level.  She was just grateful that it wasn’t easy to change out the window panes, or she knew Josephine would have switched the stained glass to something featuring lions and insincerity.

“I don’t know, what color do I want it to be, Josie?” The sleep was barely out of her eyes and already there were bolts of cloth being strewn about the room.  “I don’t want to pick some color that’s going to offend a minor noble and set off a chain of events that will end in the destruction of Thedas.”  She was not. . .a morning person.  There wasn’t a mug of coffee to be seen anywhere, and all she knew is that she was being dragged out of bed at some ungodly hour to be poked and prodded into some constrictive outfit that was going to make anything like espionage impossible.

The look the Ambassador gave her was a mix of pity and consternation.  “You are the Inquisitor, you may wear whatever color pleases you.”

She sighed, “Well, then, I guess I’d go with bl-”

“Though, blue is rather the signature color of the Empress, so I would avoid that if at all possible.”  Rowan stifled a groan.  She considered herself patient, but she hadn’t even gone to the felasil ball and it was already threatening her sanity.

“What is everyone else wearing?” she said finally.

“Well, I’ve developed a standard uniform for the rest of us, something that will show our solidarity with the Inquisition.”

“That sounds lovely.  I’ll wear the same.”

“But, Your Worsh-Row-Inquis. . .it’s simply not done!”  The Antivan looked like she might have a heart attack at any moment.

Rowan’s smile was wicked, and some part of her felt bad about what she was putting Josephine through, but she and almost everyone (Sera excluded) had been accommodating in the extreme when it came to planning for this show of buffoonery, and she’d reached her limit.

“Ambassador.  I am the Herald of Andraste, at least according to these people.   I am also Dalish, an oddity for them to stare at.  I doubt that my manner of dress, short of showing up naked, is going to generate anywhere near the level of interest that the pretty little light on my hand will.”  Josephine actually looked somewhat wounded, so Rowan reined herself in, and placed a gentle hand on the other woman’s arm.  

“I need to be able to move around quickly and silently while everyone is out dancing and making merry.  A practical outfit like a uniform with trews will be significantly easier to deal with.”  She smiled slightly.  “I promise you, _promise_ you, that you may not only dress me, you may design a gown for me the next time we have a formal event.  And I will not complain, avoid, or otherwise do anything that will hinder your doing so.”

The other woman huffed a little, but the prospect of a future event seemed to mollify her somewhat.  “When we defeat Corypheus.  There will be a celebration that will make this ball look like a minor salon.” The glint in her eye was almost mercenary.  “I will see to that.”

“And I will see to defeating Corypheus.  Anything is worth that, even another party.”  Josie shot her a look, and she put up her hand. “I’m just joking, and not well.  I haven’t had my coffee this morning and it has put me off.”

“Oh, Inquisitor, I am sorry.  Please, let Arielle measure you and I will fetch your beverage myself.”  Before Rowan could stop her, the woman had shot down the stairs.  The ambassador was sometimes a falcon and sometimes a hummingbird, and the switch between the two was remarkable at times.

The tailor had just stood off to the side during their exchange, waiting with an impassive look on her face.  Rowan approached her, arms out in supplication.  “Do to me as you will,” she said with another sigh.  She’d just keep telling herself that Halamshiral would not be as bad as she expected it to be.

\-------

Solas prided himself on his ability to maintain calm.  Even the Inquisitor couldn’t match him for stoicism.

Marian Hawke tested his patience the way no one had since the days of Arlathan.  Even then, he was hard pressed to think of someone who irritated him quite as much as she did.

“Chuckles, your bedside manner is about as jovial as a Mortalitasi without a corpse.”  Every comment she made to him was biting, insulting, or both.  He desperately held onto the shreds of his composure.

“I am sorry that I do not entertain while I treat your wounds.  Would you like for me to put in a request for a jester to perhaps keep you company while you heal?”  He possibly did not hold onto his temper as securely as he should.

“No, that won’t be necessary.  I’ll just envision the various ways that I'll find to pay you back for your little trick back in Crestwood.”

“I did so for your own good!” He finally snapped, anger overcoming common sense.  “You are a reckless, heedless woman who was only getting in the way of your treatment.  I did what was necessary.” He had finished checking her bandages and reapplying the tinctures from the hold stillroom that he had been developing.  His fists clenched around the soiled wrappings before he tossed them into the fire.

Hawke’s eyes, green and full of flame, narrowed.  “That’s the problem, Solas.  You did what _you_ thought was necessary.” She pushed her way up higher on the pillows with a groan.  “You seem to always do what _you_ think needs to be done.  You don’t consider other ways, other options.  That makes me distrust you on principle.  You remind me far too much of another mage who did what he thought was necessary, without stopping to think first.  And a city burned.”  She looked away from him at that.

“I am not that apostate fool from Kirkwall,” he practically hissed.  “He was a child, playing with forces he didn’t understand, giving into the temptation of a spirit that manipulated him far too easily.  I have years of training and self-discipline to know when a situation warrants a certain reaction.”  He gathered up his supplies and headed for the door.

“Anders. . .he was a good man.  He thought he was doing the right thing.  It didn’t make it right, and it didn’t make the betrayal hurt any less.”  The raw pain in her voice was what stopped him, though he didn’t look back; he didn’t dare lest he develop some modicum of sympathy for the irritation that was this woman.  “Rowan sees you as her family.  If you betray her. . .you’ll break her heart.” Her voice hardened.  “And I’ll break every bone in your treacherous body.  Tread lightly, Solas, and know that I know.”

At that, he did turn around, and he let the mask slip ever so slightly, to show her what hid behind the elvhen facade.  Her eyes widened at the feral gleam in his eyes.  “I will remember what you have said here, Marian Hawke.  You know nothing, not as you think you do. Do not doubt that what I do will be in the best interest of this Inquisition, and in the best interests of the woman who leads it.”  He doubted his own sincerity at the last part of that statement, but a wolf who showed hesitation would lose the prey he had chosen.  “And your threats?  You should take a minute to remember who is standing upright, and who has her belly exposed, Champion.”

He could feel her pull on her power, a tug of flame that wrapped around him like tendrils, and he did likewise, the deep and ancient thing that his magic was.  They glared at each other, at an impasse, and only the door swinging open broke the stalemate that would have likely ended with one or both of them mangled corpses on the floor.

“Maker.  Shit.” Varric knew what he had walked in on immediately, and it was a testament to the life he had lived that it wasn’t the first time he’d watched two mages battle for dominance.  Hawke didn’t break eye contact with the elf.

“Leave, Tethras.” She may have held fire in her hand, but her voice was ice.

“This is between the Champion and myself.”

“The hell it is.” He moved between the two of them, obviously on a suicidal kick for deciding to jump in the middle of a magical pissing contest.  “Chuckles, knock it off.  Go. . .meditate, or drink some tea.  Paint a mural.  Get. Out. Of. Here.”  Varric just stared at him until the mage pulled back his magic with an almost audible pop.

“As you say, Master Tethras.  I have let my temper get the best of me.  It won’t happen again.”

“If you’re around her for any length of time, I promise you, it will.”  The elf almost broke the flat line of his lips at that, but instead nodded, and turned, heading back to his rotunda and some much-needed self-reflection.

“About damn time he-”

“And you.”  The dwarf spun on his heel to face the bed.  “What kind of idiot are you, Marian?  Deciding to pick a fight with some mage that’s so elfish his shoes would have points if he wore them; what the hell are you thinking, or are you thinking?”

“He. . .you didn’t see what I saw, Varric.  He’s wrong.  Anders wrong.” Her hand shook a little as she absorbed the flame back into her skin.

He was slightly gentler when he saw how pale she had gotten.  “Chuckles has just spent too much time in the Fade.  He’s not Blondie, Hawke.”

“No.  He may be something worse.  Far worse.”  

“Like what?”  

“I. . .I don’t know. But there’s something cold there.  Something not pleasant, and filled with teeth and claws and danger.”

“Solas? Bald elf with questionable taste in clothing? That one?”

“Yes, that one, smart ass.  And you should know better than anyone the kinds of masks that people can use to hide what they really are.”  She took a deep, steadying breath.  “Fine. Don’t believe me.  But I don’t trust him, and neither should you.”

“He saved the Inquisatorial One, on more than one occasion.  Hardly seems sinister.  He could have ended us any number of times, and he hasn’t.  He’s been helpful.  Odd, but helpful.”

“All I can do is tell you what I feel, and what I feel is ‘run the fuck the other way’ or 'blow his crazy ass up' when I’m around him.”  She sighed, and the fight seemed to go out of her slightly, which worried  Varric more than her initial rantings about the elf. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just seeing conspiracies where there are really just presumptive assholes.”

Varric put a hand on her shoulder.  “Look, I believe you saw something.  I’ll keep an eye on him.  But you need to stop trying to blow his head off in the meantime.  It’s possible that’s just the way he reacts to your particular brand of conversation.”

“You’re a real prince, Tethras.”

“Merchant prince, if you please.”  He made a note to talk with the Nightingale a little more about their bald-headed friend once he wasn’t playing nursemaid to his hotheaded Champion.  “Now, what story was I telling you?”

“The next Swords & Shields installment?”

“No.”

“You let that Seeker who stabbed your book read it.”

“Yes, but I want your health to improve, not deteriorate.”

“How many times did you use the world ‘bulging?’”

“...Five.”

“Yeah.  I get to read that next.”

“For now, something more sedate.  How about a story from the former Sister Patrice?”

“Sounds scandalous.  Please, regale me with stories of woo and woe.”

He sighed. “It’s a good thing only one of us is trying to make it as an author.”


	21. What is past, or passing, or to come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our motley crew takes a journey to the gates of Halamshiral.

The idea of riding in a carriage was an almost foreign concept to Rowan. The Dalish Aravels were open-topped, so even those journeys allowed her to feel the wind in her face. The close-sided coach made her feel rather claustrophobic, and with Vivienne and Josephine holding her hostage to last minute etiquette pointers, she wondered if blasting a hole in the roof would be considered bad form.

Sera, who had been likewise sentenced to a journey having rules and regulations drilled into her head by the two harshest taskmasters in all of Thedas, was shifting uncomfortably in her seat. She finally looked over at Rowan. "This is shite, yeah? I mean, I know what big hats want. ‘Kiss my ass, tell me it’s roses.’” She glared at the other two. “They’re just people, with big heads an’ little brains. Make you a deal. I go down and play nice with the servants, I don’t have to do any of this poncy prattle. Get you some information, don’t have to mince around like a good little head up my arse player.” Vivienne and Josephine looked at each other at that.

“Well. . .I suppose. I didn’t think about that as a possibility.” The Ambassador tapped her quill thoughtfully on her tablet.

“Look, I go in, way before, yeah? I don’t need a fancy introduction, but I had a nice one set for the whole lot. Be one of the little people, like I am, and see what little people can lead to big things.”

“Is this what you want, Sera? You’re part of this Inquisition. I don’t want you to be treated any differently.” Rowan looked at the other elf with some concern. She always wondered if the girl sold herself short.

“Pffft, I’ll be a thousand times better than in any of this fancy shite. An’ we’ll all be looked at different, anyway. We’ve got pointy and shorty and horny and. . .heh, horny. . .and all the things those nobs want to stare at and snicker over. Might as well get some good out of it. Leliana will like it, too. Bet she’ll wish she played.” In a matter of seconds Sera had slid open the window of the coach and climbed out. There was no panicked shriek from the carriage behind them, so Rowan figured she had just climbed up on the roof to get away from the suffocating confines. . .and to disconcert their traveling companions.

Vivienne, as usual, managed to look completely unruffled by anything that transpired. “Since that’s apparently settled, let’s go over your introductions once more, my dear. We need to make sure that none of the visiting dignitaries are slighted by us, in order to gain the greatest advantage for the Inquisition. How many of the Council members are there?”

\--------

Bull shifted in his seat. “These were not designed for anyone over six feet tall. Or broader than a starved elf.”

Varric looked across at him. “I think they were trying to tell us that by putting the two of us in here together. Biggest and, well, shortest. Somehow the logistics were lost on someone. My lack of height won’t give you any more head room.”

“Yeah, look, sorry you can’t ride with that Champion of yours. She seems like a hell of a woman. Scary as shit, though.”

The dwarf couldn’t help but start laughing. “What’s that, Tiny? Frightened of Hawke? You get that you’re easily the size of two of her.”

The Qunari was quiet for a minute. “Your books were in Seheron, too. We know what she did, what you said she did, anyway, to the Arishok. Not that we’re suppose to talk about it. Big shameful secret, that whole shitstorm.”

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

“So, she’s got a reputation, then. Qunari-killer, or something similar?”

“Nothing quite so colorful. She’s Bas Meraad, the Unknown Tide. Come to think of it, that’s much more colorful, so we’ve got one up on you there, Author.” A slash of teeth across the way had Varric grimacing.

“So, Rowan’s trying to get that one to stick, huh?”

“There was a memo.”

“Of course there was. So ‘Unknown Tide.’ Oh, she’ll love that, another title for her collection. You should talk to her. She’s just as terrifying in person. She’d also probably love to show off her scars, including the one she got from your former inglorious leader.”

Bull’s laugh shook the coach. “You’re right, I think I would like her.” His eye got a bit mercenary, and Varric’s spine stiffened. “She involved with anybody?”

“Really? We just got done talking about Hawke being a walking Qunari death-curse and now you want to bed her?”

“Hey, if it’s like that-”

“It’s not like anything, Tiny.” He tried not to grind his teeth, really he did. “She’s her own woman. I’d just say she’s too much woman for you. . .or anyone. But you want to try your hand, you don’t need my permission.”

Bull assessed the dwarf sitting across from him, and came to a conclusion. “Uh huh. Well, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll admire from a distance. There are safer ways to get my jollies than bed someone who likes to kill military leaders as a hobby.”

“I didn’t think safety and foreplay were mutually exclusive for you.”

“Oh, they’re not, but there’s the good stuff, and then there’s suicide. It’s no fun if you’re too dead to enjoy it.”

“You’re alright, Tiny. Much less of an asshole than the other guy.”

“Between you, me, and the coach? She probably did the Qun a favor getting rid of that one. Needed some new blood in there, and the new guy seems to be doing a better job of things overall.”

“Yeah, he seemed more stable. Odd, and had a thing for cookies, from what I was told, but-”

“You. . .met. . .the new Arishok. How the hell did that happen?”

A slow grin spread across Varric’s face, and the almost tangible tug of a storytelling began. “Have I got a tale for you.”

\------

Her scar itched. 

The coach was ‘sleeping outdoors on a rock’ uncomfortable, a comparison that she could actually make.

She was bored out of her mind.

Somehow she had ended up in a carriage with Cole, Cullen, and Cassandra. Besides the possible alliterative consequences, one of them was at least partially a spirit, which she had more than had her fill of, one was a former Templar whom she liked well enough, she supposed, and one was a Seeker who had been hunting her for longer than she wanted to think about. She knew it had to have been Varric’s doing, that she was being somehow punished, or he thought she’d be less likely to get in trouble around these three.

Hawke was determined to prove him wrong.

“So, Cassandra,” she said with a smile, trying to disarm the woman slightly. “I hear you’re quite the reader.”

The Seeker’s eyes widened, immediately knowing where the conversation was headed. “Can we please not discuss this?”

“Oh no, there’s nothing to be ashamed about. I’m quite a fan myself, honestly. I’m even a bit jealous, because Varric let you read the next installment before me.” Her grin turned ever so slightly feral. “I suspect he likes you, Seeker.”

The look on the other woman’s face was akin to staring down death. “Please tell me you are joking.”

“Oh, most definitely. However, I think that it would be worth my weight in gold to see Varric’s face if you began to play up to that little falsehood.” Despite her brashness and rather direct manner, Hawke found herself liking the woman, even with her unfortunate habit of threatening to maim or kill her trusty dwarf.

“Hmm. I’m afraid I’m no good at pretense, Champion, and I feel he would see right through that ruse.”

“Possibly. But it may be worth pulling the prank at some point in the future. Just to tweak Varric’s chest hair.” 

The Seeker smiled at that response. “With the possibility of that, I’d be willing to work on my subterfuge.”

“You are a terrible influence on. . .everyone you meet, aren’t you?” Cullen said, not looking up from his papers. 

“I’d like to think I present various options to solve problems in new and creative ways.”

“So, incorrigible, then.” His voice was dry, but Hawke could see his lips twitching ever so slightly.

“If you must so label my unique and vivacious personality, combined with my unique skill set, be my guest.” 

He couldn’t hold back the chuckle at that, and met her eyes. She hadn’t realized in Kirkwall how clouded they had been. The sharp, witty, assessing personality they held now surprised and pleased her. “That’s one way to describe you, I suppose. You do keep things from being boring.” 

“That’s my goal in life, Curly. Really, it’s the true Hawke motto: ‘Never a dull moment, often spiced with bloodshed and sarcasm.’ My grandparents tried to have it changed to keep from unduly influencing their offspring, but you see how well that worked.”

“The laughter soothes and sews, scars salved with humor.” The spirit-boy broke through their banter, looked at her with those oversized eyes. She wanted to shrink away when she met his gaze, afraid that Justice’s visage would be looking back at her. But no, there was just a deep earnestness that almost made her weep.

Varric had fortunately told her about the boy’s. . .condition, so she knew that these statements were in character for him. But she also knew that Varric said he seemed lost, so she followed the dwarf’s lead. “You’re right, Kid. Sometimes the laughter helps the pain.” She had faced down an Arishok, watched a Chantry crumble. She was not going to be cowed by one spirit. “We all need something when it hurts inside.”

“You. . .want to remember, then? The pain? So much death and blood and the world suspended over a pile of bodies.” Even he seemed disturbed by what he was plucking from her mind, and she shook her head firmly.

“Yeah, I need to remember, so someone does, and nothing bad happens like that. But I do not want to talk about it. The horrors in my head need to stay there, okay?” She tried not to be harsh with him, but she was not going to have a conversation with the Templar and the Seeker about mountains of corpses and oceans of blood. They were already looking concerned.

Fortunately, the Commander stepped in. “Cole, think of Hawke as one of the soldiers. We talked about the things they had seen, and what they imagined as real. She’s lived through as much as any of them, more, if we’re being honest, and she needs to process everything in her own time.”

“Like the lyrium. You won’t let me take that from you, either. The pain helps you to remember what you’re fighting against, you said.”

“Yes,” he said, though the word seemed to pain him. “Like the lyrium.” Cullen’s eyes met hers again, and Hawke nodded to tell him she knew, and understood. “I need to fight it, not forget it, so it cannot hold sway over me anymore.”

The young man seemed to think about everything for a moment. “Alright. I will try to stay out. It’s hard, sometimes. The images are loud and hard to block out.” He looked at the Seeker. “Yours are quietest.” 

Cassandra seemed somewhat taken aback by this. “I wouldn’t think that would be the case. I certainly don’t feel that way.”

Cullen looked thoughtful. “It’s possibly your Seeker training. Maybe something in that stills your mind without your even knowing it.”

“Maybe. No matter. I do not want you in my mind, Cole.” She leveled a gaze at the boy, who just stared back at her.  
“Alright. Though I don’t know what to do when I’m not listening.” 

“Have you heard of chess?” 

The boy’s eyes widened. “I. . .don’t understand.” He looked back and forth between Hawke and Cullen. “You say the word and your world is brighter, a beam of sunshine on a flower. To the hawk it’s drowning in quicksand ‘without the pleasant aftertaste.’”

The Commander and the Champion looked at each other. “It’s about as exciting to me as war meetings,” she said to him with a shrug.

“Which is thrilling, if you have the patience for it.”

“Have you met me? Hello, Marian Hawke, paragon of impatience and compulsion. Chess is most definitely not my game. But you may be right. It might be just what the kid needs to distract him from all those pesky thoughts and emotions.”

A boyish grin broke over Cullen’s face, and Hawke suddenly saw how the Inquisitor could be stupid over him. Even Cassandra gave a small hum of appreciation when his visage brightened. “Andraste’s infinite patience, put that lip away, Cullen! And don’t bring it out at Halamshiral, or we’re going to have a horde of women and more than a few men following us back to Skyhold to worship at your feet.”

“What? I-oh.” He blushed, and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “Maker’s breath, would you two stop staring at me like that?”

“I will need to speak with Josephine. He needs a full face mask for the ball.” Cassandra’s delivery was perfectly serious, and the laughter that bubbled up out of Hawke was cleansing and had her clutching her still-healing side.

“Oh, Seeker, I owe you a round when we get back.”

She seemed to think about that for a moment. “I. . .would like that.”

“Good. It’s settled then.” Hawke happened to glance out the window and saw the first glimpse of their next battleground in the distance. “And none too soon. It’s just about time to scandalize a nation and hopefully stop a war or two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, two chapters in a day. 
> 
> And for our next update: Halamshiral. :)


	22. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the Game begin.

"I like Skyhold better."

"That's because the hold belongs to you, 'Ma falon, and it lives in time with your breath and heartbeat," Solas said as he came up behind her. "This place is a dead remnant of a life that never was." They stared up at the cold monument to the elves that the humans had overrun and made their own.

"Monument...mausoleum...ghosts of so many who passed through these halls. Lost, looking, longing. The walls are cold here. So are the people...shells, surfaces, shallow." Cole was standing next to Solas, almost leaning against him as though trying to gain some strength from his presence.

Sera had already disappeared into the bowels of the monstrosity, and inevitably was causing mayhem and mischief. Leliana had not only approved of the elf's suggestion, she did in fact seem slightly jealous of the freedom this afforded her. They set up a dead drop for whatever information was obtained by one of the obnoxiously large fountains in the main courtyard. Watching the two of them scheme was both fascinating and disturbing, for as unlike as they seemed in personality, they were of a single mind in the game of subterfuge. Rowan just stood back and watched it play out, too pent up by what was unfolding to worry overmuch about the machinations of her spymaster and the Red Jenny. 

A hand briefly grasped hers before Cullen passed by with Josephine, ostensibly preparing for her entrance, but in reality observing his soldiers' positions in the estate. The warmth was too brief, but it allowed her to gain her bearings and remember that while she didn't fit into this world, the Inquisitor needed to be the square peg shoved into the round hole. It wasn’t pretty, but it was the only way to stem the tide of Corypheus' influence, and that was far more essential than her comfort. 

She squared her shoulders. "Let's get the game started, shall we?" Cole vanished before she was even done speaking, and Solas took up a position behind and to her right in the perfect mask if obedience. He also kept her flank guarded as she approached the man who could only be Gaspard while he extolled untruths and insincerities over her fingertips. "Yes, of course I will save you a dance, Ser." She didn’t think she'd mind stepping on his toes.

Already the eyes of the courtiers were on her, her ears, her hand. They didn't even bother to hide their morbid curiosity about the strange elf who seemed to have been chosen to save the world they were currently taking for granted. 'If I'm your Herald, Andraste, I hope you knew what you were doing, picking me.'

Hawke strode up behind her, Varric at her side. “Deep breath, Lavellan. You’ve faced down Corypheus. These people are nothing." She quirked a smile at the other woman. "Forget all of the other advice, except about what knife is used for what dish. Keep smiling, like you have a secret they'll never know, and make your questions and answers vague and potentially insulting. Kind of like when Chuckles here says...anything." Solas stiffened slightly and Varric elbowed her.

"Marian, I'm going to buy you another Viscounty if you don’t behave."

"What do you mean 'another?' I don't have a-Maker, Varric what did you do now?"

"You. . .may have more titles than when you started this little field trip." The two of them headed into the crowd, still bickering.

Solas leaned in. "She may be infuriating, but she's not entirely incorrect. The less you reveal, the more fascinating you become, and the more alluring you are to them. That they may need to be convinced of your power and influence is an insult, but they are small-minded people." 

She blushed slightly. "Thank you, Hahren. If I didn't have to ingratiate myself with these people for what is apparently a good reason, I’d be running in the other direction, likely screaming.” She paused. “And falling. There would be a great deal of tripping and falling.”

The other mage chuckled softly, his warm breath tickling the back of her neck. “It would be memorable, at the very least.” He straightened. “Let us enter the masquerade, Inquisitor. And remember this, above everything else. You are surrounded as much by those who support and defend you as by those who would see you harmed. Find us if your will begins to falter.”

She spun at that, almost reaching to embrace him, but a sharp shake of his head stopped her. “The game has begun, and we all have our roles to play.” 

“I hate Halamshiral.”

\-------

A rumor had started, likely Leliana’s work, that the Champion of Kirkwall was in attendance that evening, along with the Inquisitor and her entourage. This of course had the court in a complete tizzy, each attendee attempting to outdo the other in their rage to discover the identity of the elusive “Hawke.”

Of course, the fact that the author of the Tale of the Champion was in attendance caused a queue to form around the dwarf in the hope to glean some information from him about the legend who was so much larger than life. Their looks passed over his companion, an unremarkable-looking woman in her early thirties who had been introduced as Marian Amell, Viscount of Estwatch. Now, no one knew that there actually was a Viscounty in Estwatch, as the titles were supposed to be holdovers from the Orlesian occupation and no one remembered Orlais actually occupying someplace named Estwatch, but they also didn’t want to appear ignorant of a branch of nobility, no matter how minor, so they accepted this as truth.

Varric most certainly was not going to disabuse them of this notion, since he had paid good money to the raiders on that island to create a noble house out of whole cloth. It had the dual benefit of keeping Hawke out of the line of fire over being the Champion, because what noble from another city would lower themselves to being what amounted to a mercenary for the cesspool that was Kirkwall, and it amused the hell out of him to watch the courtiers trip over each other in an attempt to remember some tidbit of information about an island that was inhabited almost exclusively by outlaws and was forgotten by everyone outside of those unfortunate enough to cross their path.

“What’s that, Hawke’s here? No, I haven’t seen them yet, but I’ll be sure to tell you if I do.” It had been over a dozen so far that had asked the same question, desperate to glean a clue. At one point he had looked over at a gathering crowd of complete strangers and waved. “Hey Hawke, great to see you, we’ll talk later! You have quite the following!” That cleared out the crowd for a few minutes and allowed him to catch his breath.

“Remind me to have a few words with the Nightingale. I need to have a few more responses ready when something like this happens.”

“What’s the matter, Tethras? Getting slow in your waning years?” She still hadn’t forgiven him for ascending her to the ranks of the nobility.

“Even the greatest author Thedas has ever seen needs ample preparation when half of Orlais descends on him.”

“Next time I meet him, I’ll ask if he thinks so. You, on the other hand, I could definitely see needing the prep time. Lots and lots of it. With little notes in your pockets and on the back of your hand to remind you of what you’re to say, since your age is playing havoc with your memory and what wit you once had.”

“As ever, your aim is true and deeply painful, dear Marian.”

“I practice regularly,” she said with a grin, the latest round of wordplay decided in her favor, brightening her mood. “So, a Viscount, huh? Is that so you could say you have friends in high places?”

“With Choir Boy, I’ve already got a prince on the roster. Nope, this was all so you could be ‘My Lady’d’ until you light someone on fire.”

“Dark Chocolate Despair, My Lady?” one of the servants asked, approaching the pair with a tray of small cakes.

“You have the despair part right,” she muttered, but gave the elf a mild look, taking two and thanking him. For his part, he hurried off, and she wasn’t sure if it was what she said, or the fact that she thanked him that sent him scurrying away. Hawke sighed. She was never going to get used to nobility and servitude and all of the oddities that came with it. Even when she technically had “servants,” she never thought of them as anything other than people who worked with her, as anything other than equals. The whole idea of rank and privilege made her itch.

She shoved the petit four in her mouth, almost moaning at the explosion of flavors. The Orlesians may have had atrocious ideas of the way the world should be, but they made fantastic desserts. Varric looked at the other piece in anticipation, but she just smiled as it followed the first one. “Viscount’s privilege,” she said.

“I’m going to live to regret this.”

“Not if you get in between me and the tiny cakes.”

\---------

"If a demon is a spirit that has been perverted in its purpose, how in Gods and the Maker have I not turned into a rage demon as a creature of intelligence forced to work at this level of stupidity?"

As she wove through the various creatures, she thought, not for the first time, that alliances were overrated. She wasn’t designed for this battle, and her enemies knew it. 

Over the field of contention, she saw her friends, all with more confidence in the outcome than she had. They had bared their teeth for a fight, and performed the complex dance of death admirably. Now it was her turn to strike, and she was woefully unprepared. 

"Grand Duchess. A pleasure." If pleasure was measured in how many teeth would rot from her sugary insincerity. 

"Ah, Inquisitor, I have needed to speak with you. But not here. Shall we dance?"

Dance. Dance? How could she avoid this and still gain the upper hand? Sprain an ankle walking down the stairs. No, an Inquisitor couldn't be seen as clumsy or vulnerable. Especially not in this den of hyenas, waiting to pounce on weakened prey. "I'm already involved with someone." Why, it was downright Orlesian of her! Victory was an acquies-

"On the dance floor, there are no ears to hear us. Please, Inquisitor. It is a matter of life or death." Of course it was. It couldn't be a matter of small consequence. No, it had to be dire. And she was there to prevent dire.

That was how an elven mage who was about as far from nimble as she could get without being a bronto, wound up sweeping the Grand Duchess Florianne effortlessly about the nobility, and whispering courtly intrigue in the middle of Halamshiral.

When she finished with a flourish, she was sure that reality would crash down with peals of laughter. Instead, there was applause. Had they just seen the same dance she had done?

"My dear Inquisitor! You are a wonder! Truly, you have been holding out on us all evening. I would claim another dance myself, but you are needed elsewhere, I believe." She gave her a pointed look.

 _Somewhere to figure out exactly what terrible part you have to play in all of this, you sniveling bitch,_ she thought. She had been spending too much time with Hawke. Aloud, she simply replied,"Yes, yes I am. Thank you for an entertaining spin around the dance floor, Your Grace."

She was still unsure what had happened while she was dancing, but a glance up at her companions had her finding answers. Vivienne was, quite smugly, smiling and giving her a slight nod, like the two of them shared a joke. Somehow the enchanter had done...something...which created at least the illusion that she could bring entire ballrooms of people to tears with her dancing. And not from stepping on their feet. Now that she was paying attention, and not terrified over ruining everything with a dance, she could feel the lacy subtlety of Vivienne’s magic as it slid over her skin. The Court Enchanter was good. Very good. They’d have to have a talk later about using magic on her unbidden. But for the moment, she was grateful.

There was of course a clamoring for more dances from the exotic and powerful Inquisitor. Was she Dalish? She had none of those odd tattoos. Could she be from an alienage? How absurd, a little flat-eared serving girl becoming the Inquisitor! There was a mystery, and of course the court loved intrigue. Especially when there was potentially something to be gained from having the answer. Feigning fatigue and the desperate need for a new pair of shoes (a clothing change mid-ball? How unusual and fascinating!) she went in search of her friends.

Solas was blending in relatively well, aside from the absurd headpiece he was wearing, leaning nonchalantly against a statue and with hooded eyes, seeming to just watch the evening pass by, engaging in occasional snatches of conversation with both nobility and servants with ease. He looked made for courtly intrigue. She could tell by his body language that he was absorbing everything, keeping notes mentally. It was like watching an artist at work, and she stopped for a minute to admire before approaching him. “You seem to be enjoying yourself, _manservant._ ” His eyes flicked up to hers with a touch of a wicked humor in them before once again going into his act of obeisance. 

“I know you did not approve of my request, but I promise you, Inquisitor, this is for the best. I’m able to obtain much better access if I appear unassuming.” 

She covered her mouth to stop the bark of laughter from escaping. “You are never unassuming, Lethal’lin. Possibly the farthest thing from it.” She slid closer to him, making sure to look as though they were discussing state secrets, or naughty ones. “And, you may want to be wary. Our dear Commander has been assaulted more than once this evening by. . .overly enthusiastic party-goers. They seem to find him irresistible.”

His cheek brushed hers as he turned to whisper in her ear. “They’re not the only ones, if I have read you correctly of late.” There it was again, that sadness, but there was no bitterness to his tone. She blushed slightly.

“You’re quite good at reading me. I’m sorry things aren’t different-”

“If things were different, Lethal’lan, you would not be you, and we might never have met, which I would eternally regret. I am much happier to be your friend than to wallow in what would never be.”

Her smile chased away shadows. "Thank you." 

"But you must get back to enamoring the nobles, and making sure Sera stays out of. . .stays in a minimal amount of trouble."

"Sadly, all too true. Places to go, people to stalk, assassination plots to foil, rooms to rummage through. . .an Inquisitor's work is never done." She was putting up a false front, if a brave one, trying to seem carefree even as she was secretly terrified. But she had to get through the blasted ball, and pretending that she understood the Game was the only way she knew that would keep them on the path they needed follow.

"Stay safe, 'Ma falon."

"You as well, Hahren." And away she glided, nearly bumping into an end table as she went. She was one of the most beautifully clumsy beings he had ever encountered, but it merely increased her charm, and the fissure in his heart.

\---------

"Remind me why I'm here again?" Hawke fidgeted with her collar. "And why I'm wearing an outfit that was obviously meant for a twelve year old boy?" 

"You're a sucker for parties, but your idea of fancy dress is a slightly less singed set of robes." Varric smirked from his place next to her. "And no twelve year old boy has an ass like that in those pants." 

"I wore my 'come hither' ass just for you tonight, trusty dwarf. Though why I should be rewarding you when I was dragged out of a perfectly nice Chantry in the middle of nowhere to get my middle opened up, again, is beyond me."

"Because you can't you can't resist the adorable picture that the members of the Inquisition make in our matching outfits. And you can't resist me."

"Sad, but true. I am hopelessly under your thrall and can have no thoughts of my own. I truly believe the blather and bullshit you put in Tale of the Champion, and wish only to have a spot to worship adoringly at your feet until you deign me worthy to meet this illustrious person you've written about." 

Hawke covered her mouth with her hand when yet another simpering Orlesian came up to announce how deliciously scandalous they found Varric's stories, and how his books were in a place of honor in some secret chamber of iniquities or another. She also hinted at wanting an autograph in a delicate place on her body, and an intimate salon. Preferably involving both him and the elusive Hawke that was apparently stalking the ball, just out of site of any of the nobles.

"What person?" he asked when that latest admirer had slithered away to fix the sudden appearance of a scorch mark on the hem of her dress, which Hawke was only too ready to point out.

"Why the Champion, of course. I've always wanted to meet a mage who could shoot lightning bolts out of their ass while taking down the Arishok with a look and a heave of her huge. . .magical orbs."

"I'm keeping that one for future installments," he said. "And as much fun as holding up this wall and playing 'Guess the Champion' is, should we mingle before we're called on to do something heroic?"

"I'd rather torment Cullen and drink too much."

"My definition of mingle. Come, Viscount Amell." He put out his hand with a flourish. 

"Dear Merchant Prince, how can I resist?" She put her hand in his, relaxing at the familiar weight and pressure, the callouses of his fingertips rubbing at her knuckles. It felt like home, something that Hawke hadn’t experienced in an age, except when she was with him. Unconsciously, she squeezed, and he looked up at her curiously. "Testing your grip. Want to make sure you're not weakening in your old age."

"I'd be insulted if it wasn’t so ludicrous. Bianca keeps me nimble." 

"Now you're just trying to make me jealous by talking about another woman."

"Don't let her hear you. She's not just any woman."

"Neither am I." She wiggled her fingers in the general direction of his chest.

"True. You do have a tendency to get me hot and bother me-ah here's our illustrious Commander."

"Yes, I see that rash has mostly cleared up, Cullen. You're not contagious anymore, I take it? Wouldn’t want to get too close, otherwise." Not surprisingly, the simpering crowd that had been pressed well inside his personal space took their leave abruptly as Cullen looked spectacularly enraged.

"You-I-the _nerve_ , Marian," he ground out. 

"Relax, Curly. It got the barnacles off of your back and other regions, didn't it? And why do you care about the opinions of these pasty-faced cheese-eaters, anyway?" Varric chuckled. "It seems worth an imaginary and vaguely embarassing disease."

The Commander was still thunderous. "If it reflects poorly on her, I'll never forgive myself. Or either of you." Cullen wasn't even looking at them; instead, his eyes scoured the ballroom, and Hawke knew when he had found her when his face lost its hard edge and turned longing. It was immediate, and it was adorable. Nauseatingly so.

"Do you see this, dear Dwarf? Our Commander is smitten."

"How could he not be? If I didn't have Bianca, I'd take a second glance at our Inquisitor myself. She's quite something." Varric glanced up at Hawke with a smirk. "Nothing like you, of course."

She batted her eyes at him. "Thank the Maker. I don't know what I'd do without a flattering word from you."

"Can you two find someone else to torment, for the love of Andraste?"

"Oooh, do you think the Empress would want to have a chat?" Hawke's eyes were wide-eyed innocence.

"Maker's breath, yes. Perhaps a scandal involving you two will end this evening faster," Cullen almost smiled for the first time that evening.

"No more threats of strange diseases from us, Curly." Varric's grin was almost feral. "Besides, your Inquisitor is coming this way. Put your tongue back in your mouth until you get her alone." 

The Commander didn't get a chance to retort, as Rowan made her way towards them. "I feel as though I've interrupted something serious or something scandalous," she said when she reached them.

"We were just talking about the Commander’s health, Inquisitor," Hawke said with a smirk.

"Oh, did the rash clear up, Cullen?" Rowan asked. "I asked Lady Amell to check on that if I didn't get the opportunity." She looked completely serious, and Cullen's skin was an amazing shade of red that clashed horribly with his uniform.

"Inquisitor, we're going to have a conversation after we're done here." He was rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yes, we are, particularly about the dance you owe me. But for now, we have some work to do, and I know just the spymaster for the job." She smiled down at Varric. 

"Mind if I tag along, Inquisitorialness? I haven’t stretched my legs since I had my side ripped open."

"The more the merrier. And since you didn't have to take Lady Montilyet's courses in decorum and etiquette, you shouldn't get out of things easily." She smirked, almost Hawke-like, and the Champion got a sudden sinking feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who wants to know my opinion on the Orlesians and Halamshiral should read Eliot's ["The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."](http://allpoetry.com/The-Love-Song-Of-J.-Alfred-Prufrock) It's, in my opinion, an ode to sanctimonious shallowness, and I adore its snark and insight. Also, you should read it because it's brilliant.


	23. Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Game continues; decisions are made and lives are changed.

Dorian Pavus was drunk. He knew this because the sharp edges of his life were, at the moment, pleasantly dulled, and his normal disdain for. . .everything. . .was tempered by a certain joviality and mild lightness of spirit.

He hated it. Or he would have hated it if he could fully direct his thoughts into loathing. So the best he could muster was a mild disdain for his fellow man. Not that those in Orlais were the types he could call his “fellows.”

Orlesians thought they had cornered the market on courtly intrigue, backstabbing, corruption, and all of the other naughty words that came to mind when thinking of nobility. They had nothing on Tevinter and its regular and flawless interpersonal malice.

The titters from the simpering nobility cut through the haze of alcohol and ennui, and he looked about to see various courtiers of both genders practically prostrating themselves over the Qunari man-beast. Not that he blamed them. If he hadn't steadfastly declared himself immune from his charms purely based on his race, he would have done plenty of his own fawning. As it was, any appreciation he had for the man, and he used the term loosely, was purely academic. And that was the lie he was going to perpetuate until the world ended or he got drunk enough that baser instincts overtook personal prejudices. He hoped for the end of the world first.

These highly frustrating thoughts came to an end as his dove of an Inquisitor approached. He did rather admire her; the exquisite beauty of her soul shone brighter than that ghastly green mark on her hand, and despite what he knew were countless setbacks and betrayals, she hadn't faltered. Well, except physically, as she was woefully adept at finding herself the victim of the nearest tree branch or uneven bit of floor. But that just brought her down from "untouchable Herald of the Bride of the Maker" to Rowan, a woman he could actually, surprisingly, call his friend. The Magisters in Tevinter would choke if they heard him spout such blasphemy. Friends, and with a heretical little elf who fancied herself a savior of mankind.

He chuckled a bit at the thought of his Inquisitor having that opinion of herself. Sometimes he caught her staring a wide-eyed at the sky, as though puzzling through the fact that she was put into this position, and not quite sure whether to accept her fate, or shake her fist at the heavens for being placed at the head of something so monstrously large and with such far-reaching, life-altering consequences.

She smiled a bit as she approached. “What has you in such a good mood, Dorian? Because I need the secret while we’re here.”

“The very thought of you, dear one. And a copious amount of alcohol. The combination has the effect of making me rather fond of my surroundings, cloyingly superficial as they may be.”

She colored a little as his compliment, but quirked an eyebrow at his current state of inebriation. “Are you in a condition to lend a hand? It’s time to go to work, I believe.”  
“Love, spellcasting while intoxicated is a specialty of mine. I’m actually probably better under the influence than I am sober, and that’s a feat in and of itself.”

Rowan couldn’t hold back a small laugh. “I see that your humility is kept well in check by the drink, too. Let me drag Bull away from his admirers and we’ll head out.”

“Must we bring the beast along?”

“Yes, yes, your token resistance to the idea is noted and dismissed, as usual. You know as well as I do that you both like him and your teamwork is impeccable, according to our Commander.” She made a wave in the Qunari’s general direction, Bull must have looked over, and by that point Hawke and Varric had caught up, talking about cakes or something similar. Most of the time he had no idea what the two went on about, but he assumed it was the nature of people who had been together for as long as that pair had; they had a language that was almost unique to them.

“Hey Sparkler, are you ready for the real dance?”

“And leave all of this behind?” he asked, gesturing at the groupings of Orlesian courtiers. He sighed exaggeratedly. “If I must, I must.”

The Champion grinned, which seemed to always preclude trouble. “Oh, I think I like you. Just the right level of disdain and sarcasm to keep me interested.”

“Alas, dear Lady, I am not your type.”

“However will I go on?” She laid the back of hand to her head, affecting a swoon. “Sadly, I’ll just seek comfort in the embrace of my estates, which I apparently now have,” she said, looking down at Varric, “and my biting wit.” The Bull had joined them at that point, and she turned to him. “Or maybe you’ll have pity on me in my lonely state.”

“Bas Meraad, I’d have to be suicidal, and I like my life and limbs too much.”

“Bas-remind me to ask you about that one later. And really, are there chapters of the Tale I haven’t read?”

“Yes. Varric gave us all annotated copies before your arrival,” Rowan said dryly. “There were salacious and wonderful and Maker and Creators may we please move along?” Dorian could see that the mask that Rowan was wearing had started to burden her, and cracks were appearing. He put an arm around her waist, and she leaned against him for a moment, seeming to regain her bearings before turning to face them all.

“So, it’s off to see what the Grand Duchess has in store for us,” she said, far too brightly. He resolved to take her out and get pleasantly shitfaced when they got back to Skyhold. She deserved it after this night. 

“Lead on, Lavellan, we’re with you.” Hawke gave her a sympathetic look. She of all of them knew the weight that their Inquisitor carried. 

That got a genuine smile. “I know, and thank you.” Her look more determined than fatalistic, she steered them toward the courtyard and, hopefully, some answers.

\----------

"A fucking rift? In the palace? And not a single person noticed?" Rowan appreciated Hawke's ability to sum up situations succinctly and with a refreshing lack of mincing of words.

"Florianne, you're insane if you think Corypheus is going to give you anything more than a painful death if he gets his way. Stop this now." It didn't come as a surprise that the Duke's sister was behind this. It really wouldn't have come as a surprise if any of the court was, to be honest. But Florianne had been so obviously helpful that it made Rowan instantly suspicious. 

The Grand Duchess prattled on about how wonderful her reign would be, and how foolish it would be to fight. The volley of weapons sent to where she was standing shut her up, and she ran, leaving them to the demons.

She had seen rooms strewn with dead bodies tonight; men, women, and Gods and Maker children, who had been slaughtered wholesale for political gain. She didn't care if they were spies or servants or even nobles, they were people. Rowan's cold rage at the idiocy of the entire process lent itself to the icy blades she flung from her staff, the usual touch of snowflakes on her skin from her magic a blizzard. She poured her power over them, freezing them in their tracks.

Bull simply cut a swath through them, his blade whistling through the air, while Dorian's magic swirled around him, crackling lightning scorching the ground, and any Venatori or demonic creatures unlucky enough to be in the vicinity. They were a matched pair, Cullen was certainly right about that. 

It was the Hawke and Varric combination that she later remembered as enviably fluid. She would send fire in an arc following the rogue's bolts, and it would hit home, blazing magnificently as it entered the chest of the hapless demon, who would scream from the pain of the shot an instant before being engulfed in flames. Their dance was an old one, well-rehearsed and flawless, menacing and glorious in its fatal beauty. 

She finally pulled the rift shut, and looked at her gore-covered companions. "I hate Halamshiral." There was no disagreement. "And you," she looked at the mercenary leader, "how would feel about a new employer?" He agreed, and she sent him to changes his pants and to meet her Commander.

The niceties were over. Josephine could have an apoplexy for all she cared. "I am done with the game, the intrigue, the bullshit." She shook with anger. "This ends now." Dorian put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she took a deep breath before they moved on, ice crystals spitting from her fingertips, snow showering down from the clear sky to cover the bodies of the demons and villains.

She met with the rest of her group, who she had sent to flush out the rest of the Venatori. "If you're ready, everyone, I believe we'll show them why one does not invite a Dalish to a ball."

\--------

Looking down at the body of the former Grand Duchess, Sera snorted. "Not so fancy now, yer Royal Deadness." She picked up the bow lying next to her. "This is alright, though."

Florianne had not been pleased to see that they had survived. The racial slurs flew from her mouth as she had fled to the courtyard, but she and a few straggling Venatori were vastly outmatched by her entire party, who were all very angry.

"You think you'll beat me, you flat-eared little bitch?" she sneered as arrows flew at her.

A bolt of ice hit her in the chest, knocking her off of her perch on the fountain. "It's knife-eared, you idiot, at least get your insults right!"

The end came swiftly for her after that, and Florianne cursed them all up to the point where Cassandra's blade lopped off her head and they were once again showered in blood and viscous fluids. Rowan was surprised even that stopped her. Hawke grumbled something about gore and maple syrup as she brushed her bloodied hair out of her eyes, leaving a red stripe across her nose.

She left the body lying there as Sera continued her typical scavenging, and trudged wearily back into the ball. The partygoers had all stopped their prattling when Rowan had launched her accusations, and were pressed up against the tall glass of the palace windows like small children looking in a sweets shop.

The Inquisitor moved past the onlookers, not looking anywhere but at the trio who seemed desperately to want to be anywhere but in the opulence of the palace. The blasted stairs made everything take longer. It was as though the whole building was some monument to balustrades. Burning it to the ground was too good of a fate for the monument to ruin and excess.

Eventually she caught up with the Empress, her cousin, and her former lover and spymaster on one of the balconies overlooking the bloodbath that had taken place while the nobles danced and schemed.

"Now, what to do about the three of you." Rowan stalked towards them, frost flashing in her eyes. "I've dealt with the mess your infighting and intrigues have caused. I've taken care of the immediate threat to your life, Empress. And you three have done what, exactly? Stood on the sidelines while others have fought and bled? Pondered your next move in the Game?" Celene moved to speak and she cut her off with a thump of her staff. "No. The Dalish apostate Inquisitor and Herald has the floor. You will play by my rules now." She looked at the three of them. "I'd like to send all three of you to an alienage to clean the houses of city elves for the rest of your days. But that's too good for you, truly. So, this is how I see things playing out. 

"Gaspard, you are to be executed. Oh, not truly, don't look so indignant. You're going to lose your life, and dedicate yourself to the chevaliers on the border of Tevinter. You'll be hunting Venatori for the Inquisition as a faceless soldier.

"Celene, I can call you Celene, since we're so close now, correct? You will maintain your throne, and Briala will be your advisor. Maybe a title for her, to grant legitimacy in the eyes of your nobility, and because it will be terribly uncomfortable for you. I think that would do. And the two of you? There’s work to be done. First, Corypheus needs to be dealt with, and I think we can all agree that it's essential he's stopped. Maybe by that point you two will have come to some sort of understanding that doesn't involve trying to destroy each other...or the elves, since you both seem bent on doing so. I think we should all have a nice chat once the end of the world isn't imminent."

Rowan looked at all of them, trying desperately not to let her fury overwhelm her. "And if you think to find a way around what I've said, or go back on any of this...I have 'friends' who are more than willing to keep tabs on all of you. They'll protect you from outside threats, but they'll report to me. You've hurt your subjects, you've caused a war. I've been tasked to speak for those you've overrun in your petty squabbles. Make this right, or I will find someone who will." She turned away, effectively dismissing the trio. "And Empress? Don’t forget to smile as you make your announcement."

She walked away, head held high enough that Vivienne would be proud. Inside, Rowan was in turmoil. She wasn’t the Champion, she didn’t have the history of blasting her way through treacherous situations, coming through the other side unscathed. Her scheme was a huge risk, and there was no guarantee of success. But it was the best, really the only option she had available that didn't cause more bloodshed. She made her escape while Celene called the guests to attention, and listened with half an ear as the Empress did as she was told. She thought she might be sick, and hunted for an unoccupied balcony to get air.

The other mage, Morrigan, appeared out of the shadows, and walked alongside her. "Well done, Inquisitor. I could hardly have played the Game better myself."

"I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult, honestly." Rowan met the eyes of the witch. Where Cullen's were golden, like sherry, hers were predatory, bright yellow and cold. 

"'Tis not for me to say, but for you to decide. If the outcome is as you wished it, is that not a victory?"

"The bodies downstairs say otherwise, Lady Morrigan."

"There are casualties in any war."

"This is not a war!" Rowan clenched her fists. "This is a family dispute and lovers' quarrel where innocent bystanders have gotten slaughtered."

Morrigan's expression didn't waver, but she nodded slightly. "As you say. Perhaps it's for the best that I'm to be your liaison for the Empire. 'Tis a good time to find other avenues to pursue my goals."

"Which are?"

"My own. But they align with yours, at least for now. I shall meet you back in Skyhold, Lady Rowan.” She stopped in front of a door, away from the crowds. "Here is the respite you seek. Take care, and we shall speak again soon." With a swish of her skirts, she glided down the hall and into the shadows. Rowan opened the door to the balcony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, I changed the decisions for the loathsome trio. I had to; the options in the game made me want to throw them all off their stupid balconies and light the estate on fire. I felt that this was a more politic option than regicide and pyromania.


	24. So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The necessary denouement, the obligatory moments on the balcony complete with an overabundance of soft feelings, and we finally get to leave Halamshiral behind.

It was secluded, quiet, which was exactly what she had been looking for. The stars weren't as bright as they were in the Dales or at Skyhold, as they fought to compete with the artificial glow from the palace. But they were something of home, and it helped to steady her. 

Leaning against the rail, she breathed deeply, until she heard the heavy footsteps behind her. "Give me a moment, if you please, Ser."

"Take even breaths, Inquisitor. It will help. I shall speak with you later." Cullen's voice rolled over her in a wash of warmth and security. 

She turned around, just as he moved to leave. "Commander, don't. . .please don't go." She held out her hand to him. His strong fingers wrapped around hers made her feel anchored to reality. "This," she said to him, "reminds me there is life beyond these walls, not tied to this vile Game."

"Political intrigue doesn't invigorate you the way it does our Ambassador? I'm shocked." He drew her to him, cradling her in his arms. "You may hate it as much as I do, but you were astonishing."

"I just hope it keeps the largest number of people alive." She leaned into him, grateful for the support, and looked up at the stars. "Everything is bathed in shadows and secrets."

He followed her gaze. "Maybe they're attempting to soften the edges of this horrible place. Perhaps it's the best they can do." 

"You're a romantic, Cullen." She smiled fleetingly, then sobered. "I just hope...did I do the right thing tonight?"

He was quiet for a moment, and looked out over the gardens. "I don't know, and not because I think you did anything wrong; I'm just not sure if there's a right answer for this much turmoil. I do think you made the best decision you could."

"How can you tell?"

"Because no one is happy with the decision, and you're wisely questioning it. And you made a choice that was best for others, not for yourself." He turned her to face him. "That is what a good leader does. It's not easy, and without a clear outcome, you'll wonder if you did due diligence. And when you lose someone. . . ." Cullen sighed. "It never truly leaves you, if you have a conscience. But you must persevere. And continue to ask for help, look to your advisors and companions, and trust yourself. You are strong and intelligent, and I've told you all of this before. Don't doubt your ability to lead."

Her eyes shone, but she had promised herself there would be no tears in Halamshiral. "Thank you, again. You always seem to be dragging me back from the brink." 

"You give yourself too little credit, Inquisitor, but part of being Commander is safeguarding you, and it's my privilege and pleasure to do so." In the distance, the orchestra struck up another tune, signalling the end of Celene's address to the crowd. Cullen's lip curled in that devilish way that sent delicious shivers along her skin. "It would also be my privilege and pleasure to dance with you. Who knows when we'll be able to again."

"As long as you don't mind a Dalish with no sense of timing." Rowan readjusted her position in his arms so that he could guide her around the balcony.

"I don't mind a Dalish who is on my mind constantly, distracting me with her mere being."

"You have been borrowing Cassandra's books, haven’t you?"

"Not a one." His eyes, dark gold in the moonlight, pulled her in. "I'm here in Halamshiral, dancing with a woman who's just brought an empire to heel. That's a heady feeling, to be honored enough to have you in my arms."

"You're the Commander of the Inquisition. I'm a disowned Dalish apostate whose with a mark on her hand who fell out of a hole in the sky. You've saved me, over and over again."

"I'm just one part of-"

She shook her head vehemently. "You have saved me. You came to find me when I was lost in the mountains. You pulled me back from the edge of insanity, and sang me to sleep. You're holding me right now, when I'm feeling lost again." She stopped his movement and put her hands on either side of his face. "I'm the one lucky enough to be here with you." 

He put his hands over hers, pulled her lips to his. "Mmm, no. This is definitely my good fortune." He trailed kisses over her cheeks, her eyelids, and down to brush over her ear. "My very, very good fortune." 

She trembled, and delicious sparks ran along her skin that made her flush with pleasure. "I'm glad to be the focus of your fortune." She tilted her head to give him access to her neck, the hint of stubble lightly grazing her skin. "I still hate Halamshiral, but I think this balcony will hold a special place in my heart."

"Agreed." His voice carried his breath over her sensitive skin. "And the stars?"

"They definitely softened the edges of the night."

They had wrapped their arms around each other, and that was how Varric and Hawke found them. "I told you they'd be out on a balcony, cuddling."

"I believe your exact phrase was 'testing the strength of the guard rail.' This is far less compromising than I was expecting." Hawke leaned against the door frame casually, smiling.

"Ruffles would still find this inappropriate...because she didn't know before we did about the two of them."

"Because she's blind and on a ship by herself lost at sea?"

"You do understand that we can hear the two of you, correct?" Rowan mumbled from Cullen's shoulder. 

"If you ignore them, perhaps they'll go away and give people some much-needed privacy," Cullen growled, but there was no real malice behind it.

"Sadly, no." The dwarf sounded anything but sorry. "We were sent to gather the troops. It seems that the Empress is in a less than celebratory mood and an Orlesian ball is ending early for the first time in anyone's memory. You made quite the impact, Snowflake."

She pulled away from Cullen at that. "Snowflake?"

"It's a work in progress." Varric shrugged.

Hawke rolled her eyes. "He did the same thing to me for years. I finally threatened to send him a litter of Mabari puppies if he didn't stop."

"I still say Chuckles-"

"You recycled that one, Varric, and it's all that elven ass’s. Don't start again. I can still find those puppies. Little ones with the Blight and pointy teeth."

"Cruel woman."

She laughed. "You have no idea how cruel I can be. But you love me anyway."

"Despite good reason telling me otherwise." He joked, he always joked, but there was a slight wistfulness in his tone.

Rowan tucked away the stray thought for later, straightened her shoulders, and threw the cloak of Inquisitor over herself. "The reality of saving the world intrudes again. Let's scandalize a few nobles on our way out, shall we?"

"I think Sera has that well in hand, Inquisitor." Leliana had slid silently behind the others. "As long as you count three exposed affairs, two cases of embezzlement, a set of stolen jewelry and no less than twenty pieces of damaging correspondence." The spymaster's eyes glittered, a little ferally.

Dumbstruck, Rowan just nodded. "I was just going to hold-nevermind. Those will do as long as no one is killed."

"I will do my best, though it is often hard to keep track of all the nobles at once." Yes, Leliana definitely had some sadist in her. "Josie will be most...well, honestly I'm not sure if she'll be pleased or not. I'd best get some chocolates to accompany the news." She gestured grandly towards the vestibule. "Shall we?"

Everyone waited for her. It was still disconcerting, the deference to her, even by those she considered friends. Uncertainties raised their ugly heads; those constant unwelcome companions who whispered of her unworthiness to lead, to be more than a little Dalish First whose own clan despised her. 

A strong hand grasped hers, but it was Hawke this time who tugged her into the light and looped their arms. "Come along, Lavellan. They may not know it, but the Orlesian assembled are about to be scandalized by the Inquisitor and the Champion walking arm in arm out of their rotting palace." Marian looked back at Cullen and Varric. "Do keep up if you've a mind to, gentlemen. And don't forget to appreciate the view." 

"Does this make us friends now, my Lady?" Rowan was still unused to Hawke's boldness in the face of, well, everything.

"We've been friends since you didn’t get my trusty dwarf killed or maimed. You keep him that way, we'll be sis-we'll be family by the end of all of this, if you can handle a slightly used human apostate in your group." Her voice was a little too bright, and Rowan knew better than to push. Family was a touchy subject for them both. She had read the Tale, and could see the story in between the lines on Hawke's face.

"I'd like that. You can help teach me how to make an exit."

The other woman's lips quirked. "I just did. You've got enough extra swing in your step to stop traffic in these highly uncomfortable pants. Don't look back, but I'm sure there's drooling and longing looks."

She colored a little at the thought of catching Cullen staring after her. "Are you trying to torture Varric?"

"Bianca's the only girl for him. I just like to give her some competition from time to time."

"The crossbow, or the woman it's named for?"

"Both. I could probably take on one, but two is an insurmountable obstacle, especially when one’s an object and the other's a fantasy."

It was the first time Rowan truly understood why some people needed to have their heads knocked together to put some sense into them. But that battlefield could wait. Thick-headedness took a backseat to political intrigue.

Behind them, Varric struggled not to whistle in appreciation. "You're doomed, Curly. She's in Hawke's clutches now."

"My fate was sealed when the Maker saw fit to drop her out of the sky and into my life. Barring the end of existence, I can't say I mind overmuch."

"And if you did?"

"I'd have Cassandra kill me, because I'd obviously gone insane." He looked down at the dwarf. "What are you going to do?"

"Fight, write, drink too much, avoid the difficult questions. Self-preservation at its finest."

"You know me, Varric, better than I'd like at times. If I'm telling you to take a risk...."

"Let's wait until after this world-ending battle to start another." He watched her walk away from him, again, and sighed. "One impossibility at a time."

Leliana just smiled softly, which could mean anything, or nothing, before disappearing down the hall the way she came in. Her notes were becoming rather extensive on the circle of influence surrounding the Inquisitor. And each morsel was like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

Why did she collect secrets and lies? Because someday Lady Lavellan would be faced with a challenge where something she gleaned would be invaluable. "And I won't let what happened to the Divine happen to another under my watch. Andraste guide my hand and protect her footsteps."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Somehow my least favorite part of the game becomes a marathon of writing. I'm going to assume it's overcompensation for my distaste.
> 
> And yup, double posting happened. Again. Because some people are my favorite people, and some threats are not only empty, they're ludicrous. ;)


	25. In the mountains, there you feel free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home from Halamshiral, shaking the dust of the Palace from their feet.

The first reports from Halamshiral were already waiting when they got back to Skyhold.  Leliana had the ravens’ missives delivered as they came in the front gate.  The spymaster smiled, and Rowan was glad that she had not been on the receiving end of that malicious grin...at least not to her knowledge.  “News?” she asked as she stepped out of the coach.

The other woman looked over at her, lifting an eyebrow delicately.  “Oh, most certainly.  I’d recommend gathering the others and assembling in the war room, Inquisitor.”

She nodded.  “Alright.  Let’s say two hours, if the information can wait that long?  I’d like everyone to at least feel that they’ve had a moment to breathe before we jump headlong into the fray again.”

“Of course.  We all could use a few minutes of freshening up.” She of course looked impeccable, as unruffled as the freshly preened wings of her birds.  Rowan, meanwhile, felt as though she had ridden under the carriage.  She stretched, neck popping as her body regained its equilibrium.  

“It may take me a week to get the stink of pretentiousness off of me.” Hawke strolled up to the other two women.

“With your new title, you may be stuck with it, Viscount Amell.”  Rowan had grown remarkably fond of the refreshingly bold mage during their trip to Halamshiral, one of the few positive experiences she could take away from the ordeal.

“You are getting remarkably cheeky, my Dalish friend,” she said with a grin. “And don’t remind me about the blasted nobility that Tethras collared me with.  He and I are going to have a few choice words over that whole debacle.”

“I think Josie almost fainted with joy at the possibilities this opened up for her in negotiations.  Perhaps you shouldn’t be so hasty to cast off your newfound status, Champion.” Leliana looked behind them as the various members of the party disembarked and the hold’s servants rushed to unload their luggage and restore order to the chaos of the returning group.  “Just...speak to her before making any hasty decisions.”  With that, the Left hand slipped away into the crowd, somehow effortlessly blending in and virtually disappearing before their eyes.

“She does that on purpose,” came the rumble of Bull’s voice.  “Damn good trick, and unnerving as hell.”

“I don’t think she can help herself,” Rowan replied quietly.  “It’s likely second nature now, the game and the subterfuge.”

“Nah, she enjoys it.  She may play the aloof ‘Spymaster of the Inquisition,’ but she’s a bard, deep down, and the mischief never really goes away.  I would have loved to have her on my team in Seheron.  We’d have been clear of ‘Vints and Fog Warriors within a month.”

“You also probably would have ended up with the Qun turning as one to the Chant, big guy.  She’s just that kind of clever.”

Bull erupted into laughter, and slapped Hawke on the back, a move that almost sent her sprawling.  “You’re right there, Bas Meraad.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” she asked, scowling.

“Ask the little guy.  I’d rather he get the fireball to the face.”

“Fucking dwarf.  Next thing I know I’ll be Arishok.”  The Champion looked over at the Inquisitor. “If you need me, just look for the flaming pyre of chest hair.  Varric!”

Rowan shook her head and laughed.  She was fairly certain Hawke was more than a bit insane.  Then again, she had been smart enough to stay in hiding when Cassandra was looking for an Inquisitor, while she had literally fallen in their laps.  She had to wonder who the crazy one really was.

A glint of burnished gold caught her eye, and she turned to see her Commander surrounded by a handful of his pages, runners, and subordinates. He was able to turn back and spare a small smile for her before being carried away on the wave of responsibility. He seemed to move a little better every day, not quite as pained by the withdrawals as time went on.  It was a relief to see; she hated that he was still plagued by the terrors and pain, but healing anything took time, and the years of mental and emotional wounds were the deepest and most insidious of all.

Those, too, seemed to be scarring, finally. She had stayed in the coach with him on the way back, a large game of musical carriages ensuing before heading back to the hold. She wasn’t ashamed to say that she took full advantage of the rearranging. Cassandra and Dorian shared the ride, but the Altus nursed a magnificent hangover with a large amount of water and a small amount of conversation, while the Seeker was lost in a book with an oddly blank dust jacket.  When she inquired, Cassandra colored slightly, but just said it was research and nothing more.

Cullen shook his head with a slight smile and mouthed "later," at her confused look. Then he laid his head back against the leather covered rest, and promptly fell into a doze, snoring slightly, his hand over hers, a breath of touch that had her heart fluttering. He slept most of the return trip, which she envied, as relaxing in the confined space was still too difficult. From time to time he would gasp or whimper slightly in his sleep, but a squeeze of fingers returned him to his calmer state after a moment. When he finally did awake, the shadows under his eyes had diminished, and the haunted look that always seemed to linger had retreated.  He smiled softly at her and then looked out the window to see Skyhold approaching.  “It’s a wonderful sight, isn’t it?”

“It’s home,” she said simply.

As the others gradually headed off to their respective areas, she headed towards her quarters, where she hoped there was a bath to be had.  Or a drink.  Or both.  She also wanted to sleep in her own bed, one that was no longer a sea of Orlesian froth if the requisition had been filled while she was away, but with a council meeting already looming, there was no way she was going to get a nap in.

She received accolades from various inhabitants of the hold as she moved through the main keep, and thanked them.  For what, she didn’t really know.  Halamshiral felt like nothing so much as a stalemate at best, and at worst. . .Rowan couldn’t even imagine the potential fallout.  But she kept the worries to herself and continued on to her room, where she took a moment to appreciate the new bed that had been installed, a solid four-poster that seemed infinitely more practical than the confection that had been overtaking her rooms before.  Absently, she hoped Vivienne enjoyed the previous model that she had moved to the enchanter’s rooms.

“Gods and Maker, it’s good to be back,” she said to no one, letting her voice travel up and be absorbed by the stones of her chambers.  It didn’t have the grandeur of the Orlesian palace, didn’t scream opulence with every twinkle of glass or crystal.  But it was real, it was solid, and it felt like hers, the way no place ever had before.

\-------

She didn’t rush through her bath; simple soaps sliding over her skin helped to wash away the perfumed finery of Orlais with rugged effectiveness, and she had never appreciated the simplicity of the garments that had been made for her more.  A clasped jacket and simple leggings were luxury after the stiff garments she had to wear for the ball.  And, at last, she unwound her hair, sighing audibly as the formerly tightly bound tresses spilled down her back in a riot of untamed brown waves.

The mask was gone.  She was Rowan again, not just the Herald or the Inquisitor.  And she felt right in her skin, even with the mark pulsing softly on her palm in a strange counterpoint to her heartbeat.

As she made her way down to the war room, she expected that she would be the first one to arrive, but the sounds of an argument let her know that she wasn’t alone.

“-of Andraste, what are you doing in Halamshiral? And here?  What do you know about what’s going on, Morrigan?”

“You are upset because you couldn’t keep track of me, Spymaster.” She could hear the sly smile in the woman’s voice  “But here I am, no sooner than I wished to be, and with some answers that you and your. . .Herald. . .have no doubt been searching for.

“Such as?”

“Such as what this Corypheus is currently after.”

As she made to move forward, a hand touched her elbow. She looked up to see Cullen, a finger to his lips.  Nodding, she settled back and waited, seeing if more was revealed before bursting in.

“And what would that be?”

“Power.”

Leliana sighed, and Rowan had the suspicion that Morrigan had driven that sound out of the Left Hand before.  And often.  “I like games too, Morrigan.  And I’ve gotten very good at them over the years.  But we just walked off of a board that even I found tedious after the initial moves.  I am not in the mood.  And I can tell you that the Inquisitor is, as well.”

“Ah, yes.  Your Inquisitor.  She’s an interesting specimen.”  That made Rowan bristle, and she opened the door.

“Specimen makes me feel rather like a bug stretched on a canvas, Lady Morrigan.”

“Not entirely untrue, Inquisitor.  You are rather under scrutiny anywhere you go.”  The witch turned those cold topaz eyes on her.  “I am just less likely to pretend it is otherwise.”

“Fair enough.”  Cullen and then Josephine who had been just steps behind entered the room and they closed the door.  “Hopefully you don’t find me wanting.”

“At present? No. Though we will see how things progress, shall we not?”  In the back of her mind, Rowan remembered Varric’s assessment of two mages meeting.  ‘Potential shitstorm,’ she thought the words were, and as she attempted to size up the hawk-like woman who seemed to be doing the same, she saw the truth in the phrase.  Magic fairly crackled off of her, a wild thing that seemed fitting with the moniker she held.  And there was depth there, but depth of...what, exactly, Rowan couldn’t tell.  It wasn’t precisely malice; she had felt the same at the ball, though with all of the other distractions, she really didn’t have the time to do more than acknowledge an otherness about the mage.  But it was dark, and hid secrets, like a room made entirely out of velvet; it was sultry and seductive, but light seemed to enter and become absorbed, too weak to escape the pull of the rich blackness.

“So tell us, if you would, Lady Morrigan, what sort of information you can provide us about our enemy.”  Josephine, ever the diplomat, steered the conversation away from any pitfalls or hazards and back onto even ground.

That hint of a smile that attempted to evoke lifetimes of knowledge returned.  “Oh yes.  There’s much that I can tell.  But ‘tis much better, I think, if I show you.”

“These were the missives we received, Inquisitor.  Apparently our liaison has brought an...item...with her that has stirred some interest with its secrecy.  And our contacts were unable to discern exactly what has been brought into the hold.”

“Oh, ‘tis more than a mere item, Leliana.  And if I could be so bold, Inquisitor, I believe it will help immensely in our fight against the Elder One.”

The fact that she called it "our fight" comforted her somewhat. But she was still unsettling, this mysterious woman with a history, according to Leliana, many legendary heroes couldn’t hope to match. "Alright, then, I am intrigued. Let's see if we can't gain a new advantage over Corypheus."

\-------

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, the stress already returning to his upper body. To think that mere hours before he had been in a somewhat blissful oblivion, fingers intertwined with Rowan, his Rowan, seemed almost like a dream itself.

He loved the work, the strategy; that wasn't the problem. What was a problem was that no matter what plans were put into place, they constantly had to be reworked, retooled, and negotiated with two other advisors and an Inquisitor before a decision could be made.

And he was being honest with himself, on a personal note, he wanted more than stolen moments with his Inquisitor, away from the eyes and ears of every agent, citizen and courtier that filled the keep and the surrounding areas.  He didn’t know how to get any of that, especially with the arrival of the Witch of the Wilds and her...eluvian, he believed the word was? He had heard rumors of the devices of course, but had no firsthand knowledge of them before one had apparently been carted into Skyhold under their noses.  It seemed that much like Leliana, Morrigan had an ability to simply get things done, no matter how unusual.

He stifled a sigh as he walked the grounds, at a loss for what to do.  So many threads were being interwoven, and soon they would be pulled taut to make a single tapestry if things went according to plan.  To pluck at one of the could send the whole of the Inquisition spiraling into disaster, and that just wasn’t acceptable to the soldier or the man.  Then how was he to….  

A thought came to him.  Just an inkling of an idea, really, and it wasn’t exactly a stroke of brilliance. But they had promised to keep an eye on Crestwood, and Caer Bronach was potentially due for an inspection.  It was far-fetched, and impulsive, and highly unlike his normally methodical approach to, well, everything.  She seemed to bring out those tendencies in him, however, and he couldn’t say he completely minded.  So, with a strategy forming in his mind, he headed back to his offices, which she had been planning to stop by after going to see the eluvian with Morrigan.  Hopefully she either wouldn’t see through his weak pretense for a journey, or she would and wouldn’t mind.  Neither mattered so long as he was able to snatch those few minutes of precious solitude with her, which would become even more sparse as the penultimate moment of facing down Corypheus drew ever closer.


	26. Assured of certain certainties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Master Dennet ponders his charges.

" _Hands_." Dennet shuddered.

He looked askance at the stables. Maybe his daughter should have been the one to take the job for the Inquisition.  He was a Ferelden; nothing should have surprised him after decades living in a hotbed of supernatural activity.

The horses were magnificent specimens. There were no two alike, but they were all monstrous beasts, reaching well over sixteen hands, broad across their backs, as though they had been bred for drafting, which was likely the case, but they were broken to the saddle, and responsive whoever made the effort to clamber onto their backs. If the world ever stopped tearing itself open, he was going to ask to take some of them for brood stock. The soldiers loved them, treated them almost like imprinted Mabari, and he'd chased off more than one who had pockets filled with sugar that would quickly turn the beasts to overweight burdens, content to graze. That wasn’t what the Inquisition needed, and he made sure that good intentions didn't pave the road to the Void.

The harts started arriving next, gifts from various countries and clans who had heard an elf was at the helm and wanted to show their solidarity. He'd been flippant about the Herald being a halla rider, but seeing her astride that Tirashan beast made him wish he was an artist, so he could capture the perfection that she presented. Put through its paces, she was an extension of the deer-like creature, with each turn, dip, and jump, it moved to the subtle commands of her legs and thighs. She held the reins, but it was almost cosmetic, because the hart could instinctively feel desires, and moved to fulfill them. Somehow her hair always came loose when she rode, and two beautiful, wild creatures flowed across his ring, her mane streaming behind them as walk turned to trot, turned to canter, and they'd launch over the fence, landing smoothly on the other side, a single unit. He'd personally seen the woman fall out of the hayloft looking for that Grey Warden, and her feet found every hole on the grounds of Skyhold, landing the leader of the Inquisition on her rear more often than not. But on the back of that hart, theirs was a flawless dance every time.

The Blight-taken fool who decided that putting a saddle on a dracolisk was a good idea had obviously been dropped on their head multiple times as a child. Surly, spiny, unpleasant creatures who tended to moult and smell on a regular basis. Oddly enough, the Seeker had taken to them as her preferred mount, their nasty cries answered with a stern squint and a grunt.  They seemed to take to her in a way they refused for anyone else who approached them. Then again, her family was known as dragon hunters.  It was probably natural for her to be on the back of something covered with scales and teeth and a nasty disposition.  Dennet had taken to tossing the raw meat in at a distance.  He wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t a fool, either, and he needed all of his fingers for the work he was doing.

He didn’t want to think about the dead things that had arrived. That bald-headed apostate had taken one look at them and almost cracked a smile, which made the Horsemaster think that he was going to find the elf cuddling in the stall with them as soon as the rest of the hold’s back was turned.  It might have been because they were the only creatures in the stables that didn’t shy and whinny and kick up when he approached.  He had only seen animals act like that around predators, and the mild mage’s disposition certainly didn’t warrant that behavior. But Dennet trusted horses more than he would ever trust people, so he followed the example of his charges and gave Solas a wide berth.

“Hands,” he said again, shuddering.  “Maker-forsaken _hands_ , on a nug the size of you, my beauty.”  Dennet stroked the forelock of the Courser, and it butted his hand affectionately.  “You’re not anything undead or scaled and clawed, or just _wrong_. You’re a horse, and that is exactly what I want you to be.” He leaned in, as though he was sharing a secret with the animal.  “I’d be just fine if everything in these stables was a horse.”  The horse huffed. “Yes, alright, the harts aren’t that bad. Oversized, but not bad.”

A cough from behind him brought the Horsemaster to attention, and he turned around.  “Oh, Commander, apologies.” He brought his fist to his chest.  “How can I help you?”

The Ferelden approached the the stall Dennet was leaning against, and pulled off his glove, stretching his fingers flat under the nose of the horse to let it catch his scent.  It sniffed, and then rubbed its lips against his hand, an equine seal of approval. “Good girl.”  The smile on Cullen’s face made him look younger, a little more carefree than the man with a haunted and strained history in his eyes.  The older man may have not had much time for talking or gossiping - he was just fine with that, people spoke too much, and seemed to say far less than his charges - but he was observant, and knew that there was more than a social call on the Commander’s mind.

“Are you looking for a particular mount, Ser?” Dennet prompted.  For a moment, Cullen had been lost in the simplicity of an animal’s affection, an experience he was all too familiar with.  He broke away with a last scratch to the horse’s ears, and looked up, vague uncertainty in his expression.

“I need a mount, Master Dennet.”

“You’ve come to the right part of the hold in that case.”

Cullen’s lip quirked at that.  “The menagerie is impressive.  I know I typically use a Forder when I ride out to battle, but I need something more equipped for distance for this task.”

Already Dennet was cataloguing his charges. “If you’re going on any kind of diplomatic mission, there are definitely preferable mounts, or if you need a beast that can carry an impressive amount of weight, I have recommendations.  How many will be in your party?”

“Two.”

He blinked at that.  “Then it’s a scouting mission; you’ll need something swift and si-”

“No, it’s not espionage.  I definitely leave that to Leliana.”  He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.  “I. . .am escorting the Inquisitor on some business outside of Honnleath.”

“Are you now?” Dennet had never been a betting man, his wife would never have let him hear the end of it if he through good coin after bad, but he had been hard-pressed to resist the current wagers being conducted out of the Rest with regards to the Commander and the Inquisitor.  “You’ll want a hart, then?”

“Oh, Maker, no.”  The Commander looked nonplussed at the idea.  “I still don’t know how Row-the Inquisitor rides those beasts without impaling herself.  No, Ser, a good sturdy horse is all I require.”

Dennet smiled and made a gesture at the animal that was standing between them.  “Then Aisling is the one for you.  She doesn’t find you offensive, it the current snuffling at your pockets is any indication.”

“It must be those cakes that I keep finding on my desk; the crumbs get everywhere.  Sera seems to have a bit of an obsession with either cheering me up, fattening me up, or killiing me.  I’m not sure which is the right answer.”

“Likely whichever one occurs,” he said dryly.  The girl was a menace; he always seemed to find the stalls unlatched whenever she stopped by to “visit,” and his bridles were inevitably tangled into unusable lumps.  Her laughter as she walked away made him shake his head, before he started on the endless task of unknotting them.

“You’re likely right.” He sighed.  “But to the task at hand.  If you could have them both ready in the morning after first light, I would be forever indebted to you.”

“Sirrah, you and the others are working to save the world. This doesn’t begin to cover my debt.”  They spoke for a few more moments, the younger man seeming reluctant to leave the relative comfort of the stable and its soothing nature, but finally, with an affectionate brush of his fingers across the horse’s neck, he took his leave.

“Business in Honnleath.  I’m sure,” Dennet said with a good-natured chuckle.  He went to lay out the tack for both riders the next day, but as he moved away, he heard an odd sound. Cautiously, he went around the corner to the second set of stalls, and he thought for a moment that he had finally started to lose his mind.  There at the end of the row, clad in her typical spy-meets-soldier attire, the Left Hand of the Divine stood cooing at the oversized nugs that had been left in his care.  And the odd animals, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be relishing the attention being showered on them.  Without letting her know he was there, the Horsemaster walked away, not wishing to disturb what appeared to be a moment of simple pleasure for the woman.  Not that he’d ever understand what she saw in those creatures.

“ _Hands_.”


	27. The Floors of Memory and All Its Clear Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment is taken out of the rush of the Inquisition, though there are still battles to be fought.

“I’m assuming you’ve figured out this isn’t exactly an official Inquisition visitation.”

“Why, Commander, are you saying that you have ulterior motives?  That our trip to Caer Bronach is more than meets the eye?”  Her voice was almost insipid with insincerity, but her smile was genuine.  “Yes, I figured that out about five seconds after you asked me to accompany you.”  

“And yet you agreed to come along.”  He pulled his horse to a stop, and she did likewise with the hart, using her legs to convey her intention.  “Should I assume that you’re not adverse to spending time with me in that case?”

“You’re jesting, aren’t you?”  She stared hard at him.  “No, you’re really not.  Cullen Rutherford,” she intoned, her voice serious, “time spent in your company is a pleasure.  If you haven’t yet figured that out, I’m going to ask Bull and the Chargers to take you out and knock some sense into you.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding.  “It just always seems a bit too good to be true, that it’s a teasing dream out of a lyrium-infused nightmare.”

She sidled her mount closer to his, and put out her hand, which he took.  “I feel the same way at times. But after everything...I refuse to question this, us.  It’s solid, and it’s real, and as your Inquisitor, I’m insisting that that you do the same.”

“You’re...ordering me to be in this relationship with you.”  It wasn’t a question, and his Maker-forsaken lip quirked at the implication.

She smiled back, playful and young, something he’d never quite seen on her face before, and it was another aspect of her that took his breath away.  “If that’s what it takes to convince you, then yes.  Why else have the title and the power if I’m not allowed to abuse it?”

“Hawke is definitely rubbing off on you.”

“I can’t say that’s entirely a bad thing.  I don’t think I could handle having her temper, though.  She’s awfully volatile.”

“Insane, you mean.”

“Perhaps a little. But who of us isn’t?”

He paused.  “A fair point.”

She disentangled her fingers from his after giving them a final squeeze.  “Now, where are we going, exactly?”

“There’s. . .a place that I wish to show you, before we conduct our business at the keep.  I do want to see how things are progressing there, and make sure that Crestwood is able to rebuild after so many ordeals.”

“Alright.  I look forward to-” a sound cut her off, and she looked off to the side of the path to see a rift forming. Her hand glowed and spit in response, and she hissed with pain. “Fenedhis.  I thought these roads were cleared.”

“They were.  The rifts are unpredictable, though, and they don’t always reveal themselves at first.”  He had already dismounted, and led the horse to the side of the path, removing bit and bridle so that she could easily escape if the worst should happen.  Her eyes were showing white and her ears flattened against her skull, but, sturdy animal that she was, she didn’t struggle in his grasp.

The hart likewise followed Rowan’s lead and soon the Commander and Inquisitor were heading towards the tear in reality, each cursing their own folly in not bringing reinforcements.  

“Have you dealt with one of these before?” she asked him quietly as they approached.  

“Not directly.”

“They’ll appear around the edges of the tear.  Watch your step, and move if the ground starts to glow.  I’ll set as many traps as I can to slow them down, but I have to get to the inside to try and pull the rift closed.”  She looked over at him. “Be careful, and move in towards the rift instead of out.”

Admiration flashed in his gaze as he listened to her.  She was no mere figurehead; there was a seasoned warrior next to him who was already preparing her spells as they moved in.  Intricate circles of blue magic dropped in place around the perimeter of the glowing mass, and she nodded when a cracking noise came from the area, indicating the manifestation of the demons, who were now aware of their presence.

In Rowan’s opinion, staves were very handy...for getting in the way.  She used them as other mages did; it was part of being a magic user, and she knew that, and they did help with range.  But her hands were her greatest weapons, and she had spent so much of her time in training using them exclusively  that the staff had become merely a way to knock creatures away as she formed and cast spells. She did just that before she rocketed a sheet of ice at a line of demons that were approaching her spot under the rift.  Shoving her hand into the swirling green light, Rowan waited for the anchor to catch around whatever helped her pull the rift shut.  As sometimes happened, it clicked, but the closure was incomplete.  Which meant one thing.

“More coming!”

Cullen’s blade whirled as he cut through the spawning demons.  He thanked the Maker he hadn’t given up his daily sparring even in the throes of withdrawal; as it was he was using all of his strength to make a dent in the monsters that just seemed to keep pouring from the hole.  If he had been in any weaker condition, he would have been overwhelmed in a matter of moments.

A bolt of ice flew by as he kept his focus on the fiery creature in front of him.  He heard a scream, but didn’t break his concentration as he lunged and caught the demon in the approximate area of its ribs, slicing it open and causing black ichor and red hot lava to flow from the wound.  It shrieked as it died, shriveling into a pile of ash before his eyes.

He scanned the field for more enemies, but an audible blast of noise and air turned his attention to the rift itself, or where the rift had been, as Rowan pulled her hand down, cradling it with her other arm.  Shards of green light shimmered around her before disappearing.  She met his eyes, a wry expression on her face.  “And that’s what my daily routine looks like out in the field.”  He chuckled, but they both seemed to sag a little, the adrenaline of the battle leaving them both weary.  His muscles cried out from the strain and the hand with the anchor was obviously causing her pain the way she favored it.  She reached down to pick something - her staff - up from the ground, and she leaned against it.  “That’s what they’re good for, as well.”

They dragged themselves back to the animals, who had, thanks to Master Dennet’s training, not run off during the battle, and mounted with no little difficulty.  They silently agreed that though they may have needed rest, sleeping in the same area where a rift had just been closed was not happening.  Rowan felt around on her belt, and handed him a healing potion, before downing one herself.  He looked at it askance, but she assured him they were free of lyrium, using only elfroot as their base.  

It tasted as vile as he remembered, but the soreness left his limbs and he felt himself at least somewhat rejuvenated by the draught.  She made a vague gagging noise to his left as she did the same.  “I never get used to them.  It’s like licking dirt.”

“And licorice.” He shuddered slightly.  “An utterly unwholesome combination.”  Cullen sighed as he settled more comfortably in the saddle, no longer needing to hunch over to keep from groaning in pain.  “This is not the excursion I had planned on.”

She shook the hand with the Mark, as though trying to remove numbness from it. “Nor mine, I admit.  Though I haven’t had the opportunity to see you do more than spar.  You’re rather formidable on the field, Commander.”

“For an old man and an ex-Templar. I can hold my own, it seems, though barely.”  He grimaced.  “I admit, there’s a missing edge without the lyrium.  It doesn’t please me that I can’t fight tirelessly as I used to.”

“Would you trade that for the addiction?” she asked quietly.

“Not in a million ages.  I may not have the sword arm I once did, but at least I can clearly see what I’m attacking, and why.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The two of them continued on, until, as dusk settled over the area, the lights of a few houses came into view.  “I thought this whole area had been taken out by the Blight.”

“Sometimes people will not leave their homes, no matter the cost.  Or, if they leave, they return, because it is the only home they’ve known, and no amount of Darkspawn will keep them from the place they call home."

“You haven’t been back.”

“No. My family left here, and...I didn’t know what it would look like to me, so many years later.  Maybe it was fear.  Fear of being disappointed that my memories weren’t what they should have been, or saddened by the wreckage of what was left behind after such devastation.”

“What changed your mind, then?”  She had followed his lead through a winding path by that skirted the remnants of the town.  

“Getting off of the lyrium.  I realized that I left behind more than I thought when I went with the Templars.  And I know I can’t reclaim that part of my past, but I can make peace with it, maybe find some forgiveness for the way I heedlessly abandoned part of who I was to join something that no longer defines me.”

“I think the only person who needs to forgive you is yourself, Cullen. Your family obviously doesn’t begrudge you your choices. Your sister may expect more correspondence from you, but that’s out of affection.”

“Here.”  He stopped and dismounted, tethering the horse to a post as he waited for her to do the same.  Taking her hand, he led her along a trail that was overgrown with weeds after years of disuse.  Suddenly the footing changed from earth to wood, and she stumbled slightly, though he caught her easily.  She realized that they were on a dock overlooking a small body of water.  It was brackish and dark, but it had a certain wild beauty to it that she appreciated.

“Where are we?”

“I used to come here as a boy.  With siblings, sometimes one needs a place to call their own, away from the occasionally smothering attention of brothers and sisters.”  He looked down in the water.  “I’d find my way down here, to think, to pray, to dream.”  She could see that he wasn’t quite in the present with her anymore, and she let him find those moments of his past.  “The last time. . .it was before I left to start my training with the Templars.  My brother was with me that night.  He gave me a token.  A coin.  I’m sure it was just something he had in his pocket, but he told me that it was lucky, that it would keep me safe on my journey.”  From a pocket in his tunic, he pulled out a well worn piece of metal, rubbed matte from years of use.  “I’ve kept it with me all these years, despite the Templar rules that we could bring nothing.”  He laughed humorlessly.  “I suppose, in the end, I was never the Templar I strove to be.”

He turned suddenly to her, his eyes refocusing.  “I brought you here, so that you could see where I came from, because I thought you should know that the ‘Commander of the Inquisition’ is from a village in the middle of nowhere, with no great or grand titles or estates.  That in the end, I’m Cullen Rutherford, a boy from Honnleath who ran away to find glory for the Maker’s name, and have ended up...here.  Back where I started, I suppose, though a great deal older and perhaps a little wiser.”

She reached up to stroke his cheek.  “You’re not simply anything.  No one is, and certainly not you.”  He leaned into her touch.  “Thank you for sharing your past with me, Cullen.  All of it, everything you’ve been through, it’s made you the person you are.  And I’m proud to know you, all of you, and your scars, whether I can see them or not.”

He took her hand in his, laid a kiss on her palm.  “You are...too good by half, Rowan.” He then pressed something into her fingers. “I want you to have this.  It’s kept me safe thus far, and I’d like it to do the same for you.” He smiled at her softly.  “Call it superstition, or what you will, but it will make me feel better, knowing it’s guarding your in your journeys and your battles.”

She stared down at the little coin, then back up at him, eyes wide, tears at the corners.  “I...of course.”  She curled her fingers around it, the warmth from his touch upon it seeping into her skin.  “I’m honored.”

“I’ve told you,” he said with a slight smirk. “It is my great honor to be able to have these moments with you.”

‘I-” He leaned in and silenced her with a kiss that left her heart racing and the heavens singing.

 


	28. Something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, where things are and aren't said.

She slid a drink across the table to him. “Your turn.”

“What is this?” He sniffed the glass and gagged slightly. 

“Something that big hulking Qunari gave me to drink. He’s nice. A bit hung up on his own sword, and I mean that in every way possible, but nice.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you had paid attention to the way he took the heads off those Venatori in Halamshiral.” He stared down into the cup. “You don’t actually want me to drink this, do you?”

“Oh yes, very much so.”

“Why? Did I do something recently to piss you off? Kick your Mabari? Leave the dishes in the sink?” Varric was fairly certain the liquid was eating the bottom of the mug. He didn’t trust the fizzing noise, either.

“Because the faces you make when you taste something awful are truly memorable. I remember the time you accidentally drank that topical mixture that Merrill was helping. . .” she paused for a minute, took a breath, “helping Anders with. That was priceless.”

He couldn’t take the sorrow in her eyes, the deep misery that threatened to pull him under. So, he did the only thing a drowning man could do, and drank.

Fire. There must have actually been flames coming out of his mouth, because that was the only explanation for what was happening. He gagged, choked, sputtered, as the drink, if that’s truly what it was and not some accelerant, slid down his throat. He looked up at Hawke, tears streaming down his face, as morose moved to humor moved to dawning horror in the blink of an eye. “Shit, that bad?” She grabbed the mug and took a swig herself, choking as it went down.

“Why-” he gasped, coughed, tried again. “Why in Andraste’s grace would you do that?”

She took heaving breaths before answering. “So you couldn’t dare me to later.” She stood, gripping the table to make sure her legs were under her. “Air.”

He nodded, doing the same, and swaying a little as he stood. Bull and the Chargers were laughing hysterically, and if Hawke had been able to see straight, she’d have set their asses on fire. As it was, it took everything she had to get outside of the Rest and into the snow. She felt Varric’s hand clutch hers, and she planted her face into the frozen white bliss. She was fairly certain it hissed when the fiendish liquid touched it.

“Y’okay?” he mumbled to her prone form. The cold air was blessed refreshment after the misery of that poison he had swallowed.

“Mmmrgh.” She took a moment more to recover, and then pushed herself to her knees. “C’mon dwarf, let’s get cleaned up.”

He stood unsteadily. “That’s one of the stupider things that we’ve ever done.”

“And we’ve done a lot of stupid shit.”

They leaned on each other as they made their way to his rooms, where they promptly collapsed in chairs that were sturdier than they were comfortable. 

“That was awful.”

“That’s a new rule. Never take a drink recommendation from a Qunari.” Still unsteady, eyes still watery, he went out to his the balcony he had, and pulled the bucket of ale he kept there, along with a couple of mugs. “This should get the taste out of our mouths.” He tossed her a towel, and use one himself to clean his face and pat dry some of the snow. “Hell. And we were having such a terrible time, too.”

She dipped the mugs; the beer wasn’t frothy, but at least it was cold, and after the horror of Qunari beverages, anything else was ambrosia. She took a deep drink and sighed. “That’s much better.”

“It would have to be.” He finally sat back down across from her. “Did I ever tell you-”

“Probably.”

He narrowed his eyes. “There’s no way you could know.”

“Did it involve a damsel in distress, a knight in shining armor, a gallant dwarf, or ample amounts of alcohol?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then I’ve heard it.” She finished her first mug and dipped a second.

“You’ve never heard about the time Bianca and-”

“It’s time for one of those sticky talks.” That was the phrase they had come up with over the years to let the other know that something serious was going to be discussed. It usually meant someone was in trouble, someone was going to be in trouble, or one of them had noticed the other was going off kilter and needed to be reined back in. She wasn’t sure which one this qualified as, but she had been working up to it the entire evening.

“That’s why you slipped me that rage demon piss. Building up your own courage.” But he refilled his mug, sat down, and waited.

She looked down at her glass, unsure of where to begin. But she needed to find out. If only to live with the knowledge...and the heartache. “I’ve never asked, Varric. About Bianca. Because I know you won’t tell me. Can’t tell me, or anyone, for some noble and romantic reason. And I’ve accepted that. Because you’re my best friend, and I trust you more than anyone.”

“And I appreciate that….” Varric wasn’t sure where this was going.

“But I’m not an idiot.”

“No, you are not. Impulsive, definitely. Stupidly brave, yes. But not an idiot.”

“So I put a few things together in my mind. I didn’t pry, didn’t even make inquiries.”

“Hawke.”

She put a hand up. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I don’t want you to tell me anything, or break your promise. And I will never talk about this with another person. Just stop me if I’m wrong.” And Hawke settled in, and spun a story, the way she had learned from the master.

“You were young. So was she. And she was brilliant, sassy, used her fingers on you the way she used them on her machines?” He was silent, listening, his eyes flat, and she pressed on. “You spun stories for her, and she ate them up, made you happy for once, away from your family that didn’t appreciate you, that wounded your heart and soul. There was likely something similar going on in her life, and you did the same for her. And then she made you a gift.” Her eyes slid over to the crossbow sitting on its rack in the corner. “Something unique, that you never could have imagined in that brilliant head of yours. And you made a promise, because you loved her, that it would be your secret, this gift, because it was too dangerous, too powerful. You could come up with cover stories so wild that no one would bother looking for the truth from you. And that was good.

“But then it all went wrong. Someone, somewhere, decided that the two of you couldn’t be together. Her family, yours, the Guilds, the Ancestors, it doesn’t matter. What matters is they tore you two apart. So you became star-crossed lovers, a story for the ages. And you went your separate ways. And you kept her secret, to keep her safe. To this day. But you wonder even now, do you still love her, or do you love the memory, the story?” Hawke took a breath, picked up her mug and swallowed down the rapidly warming beer. It was bitter, but hell, so was she. Bitter and bold and unwise. “And if you can’t answer that, then I despise her. Because that means she’s still in touch with you, still has a hold on you beyond a memory and a vow.”

“Shit.” It was the only word that he could think of. She was close to so many pieces, on the edges of truth. And he couldn’t, wouldn’t say a word.

“Yeah. So do me a favor, make me a promise. Don’t let me meet her. Don’t bring her near me. Because I’ve seen the loss in your eyes, and I don’t think I could keep from hurting her the way she’s hurt you.”

There were a thousand things he wanted to say, words fully formed, confessions locked behind years of self-denial and doubt. He knew what was true, and what had been. And she didn’t realize, couldn’t realize that over the years the source of his heartache had changed. So he didn’t disabuse her of that notion, and he made another vow he knew he could keep. “I promise.”

She nodded, reached over and touched his hand lightly. “Don’t hate me, Varric.”

His eyes shot to hers. “Hate you? Have you lost your mind? I may get pissed at you, but I don’t think I’d know how to hate you.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed before letting go. “No. I should have known you wouldn’t be able to keep from wondering. I was the idiot.” He clutched his own drink and slammed the rest of it down, grimacing. “Long stories make for flat beer.”

“Thank you for not telling me the truth.” She smiled, Hawke again.

“You can count on me. Now, can we not talk about something a little less intense? Like if Isabela is ever going to come off of her ship now that she’s got one again.”

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. That was the way their conversations always seemed to go: moments of heart-wrenching seriousness that found their way in between hours of companionable nothingness. This one had been one of the hardest, though. Maybe the only one that was worse was the night they left Kirkwall, and she took Anders to safety. That was another moment they were going to have to have one day. But not that night. 

She fell asleep in the chair, eventually, the shit Bull had given them, the beer, and the stress finally culminating in her head nodding partway through one of his stories about Merrill and Fenris. The two (unsurprisingly) were bickering about the nature of magic as they got progressively more drunk off of several bottles of wine. It ended with them awkwardly clawing at each other at the Hanged Man, and passing out at the table. They never spoke of it again with each other, though Varric made mention of it. Frequently, to their dismay. And Isabela kept trying to get the two of them to reenact the moment with her. About half of the story was true, but that wasn’t important. It had made her laugh before she had passed out.

“Maker, Hawke, I missed this.” She snorted slightly in response, twitching in her sleep. “You too? Good. I’d hate for this relationship to be one-sided.” He pulled the comforter from his bed, and tucked it around her. He looked at her, relaxed, but not relaxed in her unconscious state, and brushed a lock of hair out of her face, wanting to take away the pain, but at a complete loss of how to do so without simply being there for her. “Bet you envy the dwarven dreamlessness now, don’t you?”

He looked at his bed longingly, then back at her. “Shit.” For a person as erudite as he was, the one syllable was his word of choice for the evening. He grabbed an extra blanket from the mattress, pulled his chair next to hers, and settled in, taking her hand in his. It wasn’t the first time one of them had done this for the other, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. Laying his head back against the chair, he let sleep come over him, familiar oblivion not letting him dream and dwell about the memory of the woman who had been, or the presence of the woman who was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is no fool, and I feel that her opinions on Bianca would align fairly closely with mine. Which is to say, her fate should involve a bottomless shaft and an eternity to reflect on her actions and inactions.


	29. To lead you to an overwhelming question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leadership brings with it a wealth of unwanted responsibility.

Rowan approached the stone dais warily; this was not what she wanted to be doing. Fighting enemies, making split second choices of life or death, that she had gotten used to. She didn’t enjoy it, but it was familiar, and she was learning to live with those choices. 

The war table she could use to consult her council, and together they weighed options and made decisions. At least then, there was a safety net. She had no such luxury available to her out amongst the quickly assembling crowd.

The throne stood, an impassive block of stone that gave her no answers or insight into what needed to be done with those who would stand before her. She was truly on her own in making these judgments. 

The seat was uncomfortable; it seemed fitting that she shouldn't rest easy when lives hung in the balance, like a sword dangling by a thread over the head of both her and the accused. One misstep on either of their parts could spell the doom of one or both of them.

She tried to appear calm, detached. None of this felt right. Who was she to judge the guilt or innocence of others when she truly didn’t know her own in the grand scheme of things? Her fingers rubbed over the smooth face of Cullen's coin. 'Give me strength, please,' she prayed silently, hoping someone would hear her and perhaps take pity.

Josephine was in her element. “The former mayor of Crestwood, Gregory Dedrick,” she intoned, listing off the various wrongs the man had committed. Her stomach churned as she looked at his pathetic form, trembling before her supposed might and power. She felt the way he looked, and sympathized somewhat. 

There were options laid out before her; numerous and none completely right. She couldn’t kill him; she was many things, but an executioner made her feel no better than the ones she judged. Maybe she’d change her mind someday; that day hadn’t arrived yet. She could give him over to Ferelden, but that was just passing off responsibility. So, truly, there was only one thing to do. “Mayor Dedrick, for your crimes, I am exiling you from Ferelden. If you wish, you may attempt to atone for your crimes by establishing trade routes that will benefit the citizens of your former town. In addition, a memorial is to be constructed in the names of those who you condemned to death. This will be built by the Inquisition and you will be repaying us by serving as our eyes and ears in your new home.” She stood, and approached him. “Remember the mercy you have been shown here, and that your crimes, however justified you felt at the time, are reprehensible. You killed your people, men and women who trusted you, and you did so out of fear. Do not give into that fear again, do not let it rule you, do not repeat this tragic page in history again.”

“Y-yes, your Worship. You are too kind. Th-thank you.” The man visibly sagged, and had to be held up by the two guards at his sides as he was led away. “I will work to atone. . .I tried. . .I thought I was saving us all.”

Would prison have been the better choice? Would he run again as soon as he was given the opportunity? There was no way of knowing, but it was what felt like the best decision, the only decision, if she was being honest with herself. There was a murmur through the crowd; she didn’t know what, if anything that met. It happened each time she sat before them and took on the mantle of judge. From the beginning, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to satisfy the entirety of the people in the Inquisition. But that wasn’t her goal; she needed to do what was best, not what was easy or fashionable. If she did otherwise, she was a placating puppet to the whims of the people.

The ambassador instructed one of the pages to inform the requisition officer to prepare the necessary supplies for Dedrick. He wouldn’t be sent empty-handed into the wilderness, and perhaps that kindness would provide the extra incentive needed to retain his loyalty. Or, at least his gratefulness, which in time could grow to become more. Rowan hoped, which may have been folly, but if she let go of that tenuous thread of faith in others, nothing would be left of her but that shell she had almost embraced before Cullen helped to pull her from the brink. She needed hope, they all did.

Josephine gasped slightly, which drew her attention away from her own introspection. For her to show other than absolute decorum was a major cause of concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m...this is highly, highly irregular, Inquisitor, and if I had known...well, there is no helping it now, I suppose.”

The smell assaulted her first. Death, and not new death. The metallic smell of blood had given over to spoiling meat, and she, like most of those assembled, gagged. The source of the noxious odor quickly became clear as the box was brought forward by four men who looked particularly green at their proximity to their burden. She quickly cast a bubble around the container, holding its fumes at bay. It took a moment, but the scent dissipated, allowing everyone to breathe more easily.

“What in the Void is that, Josephine?” she finally managed. 

“That...is the Duchess Florianne.” She flushed and looked away.

“It’s-what? The Duchess? The very very dead Duchess?”

“Yes, Inquisitor. Apparently it was felt that she still needed to face judgment, and this is the solution that they had come up with.”

Cackling laughter echoed through the hall, and Rowan narrowed her eyes. ‘Sera,’ she thought darkly, and made a note to have a thorough talk with her later about the Red Jenny reports that had conveniently left out this particular detail of the goings on in Orlais. There was no way, no way that their informants had been unaware of the incoming delivery from the Winter Palace.  
  
“The nobles of Orlais have stated the judgment must still be rendered in order to release the holdings on her estate. They have granted this...privilege...to the Inquisition. And as it apparently cannot be done by proxy, they have delivered the Grand Duchess thusly.”

Rowan was too disgusted to even be insulted. The fact that they would reduce a member not just of their court but their family to this state was...unthinkable. The woman had worked with Corypheus, had tried to kill her and her people, and yet she still would never have considered this fate for her remains.

“Send it back.”

“But-”

“Send. It. Back.” Rowan stepped off the platform and approached the box. Placing her hand on it, she bowed her head for a moment. “O Falon'Din, Lethanavir--Friend to the Dead, guide her feet, calm her soul, Lead her to her rest. Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be Forgiven.”

The hall was silent. She looked around at the crowd, who had fallen into a hush when she stepped down, and were now watching her, uncertain of what exactly had occurred. It took her a moment to blink back the tears in her eyes at the fate of the wretched woman whose corpse was in front of her. “She was our enemy, yes. And she plotted our demise. But she was a person worthy of dignity in death even if it was not given in life to others.” Her voice was steady, and she was thankful for that; she felt anything but calm. “I will not allow the Inquisition to become an instrument of humiliation and degradation.” Rowan looked back at Josephine. “Ambassador, please have a coach made ready, and return the Duchess’ remains to her home. Inform those who accompany the body that if they will not receive her, she is to have a formal burial on behalf of the Inquisition. If necessary, I will take on the expense myself.” 

The Antivan woman looked at her with widened eyes. This behavior was unexpected, but not unwelcome from the Inquisitor. To be fair, she handled the sudden unpleasantness with aplomb, if with a solemnity that took her by surprise. This was something that would likely endear the elf to more citizens than any other action. To avoid the petty, trite responses that would have been momentarily jovial but ultimately viewed as childish and immature was a stroke of brilliance. Josephine couldn’t be prouder.

“Please, anyone who would wish to accompany the funerary procession of the Grand Duchess Florianne, speak with my office, and we will arrange your transportation,” she said. That would keep the Orlesians from snickering, if their own people joined the caravan returning to Halamshiral. Doing so lent credence to the sincerity of the Inquisition’s stance. To do anything other than accept the remains and dispose of them in a manner befitting the woman’s former station would be an insult not only to the noble herself but to the citizens who took the time to see and be seen traveling with the corpse. And that would be a major faux pas in the Game. She dared not smile, but a wicked thrill coursed through her at the idea of besting the best with maneuvers and machinations.

Rowan took a deep breath before stepping back. She didn’t need her temper to start spitting icicles and frightening the groups of followers into thinking she was losing control. “Are we done, then, Ambassador Montilyet?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, Inquisitor, that is everything on the docket for today. Thank you for granting your wisdom upon these proceedings.” She finished each session this way, and every time, Rowan wanted to laugh at the absurdity. This time she almost did burst out with a bit of hysterical giggling. Instead, she made her excuses and escaped to the gardens as quickly as she could, finding sanctuary in the makeshift chapel to Andraste that had been constructed. It was a small blessing to find it empty. She didn’t kneel, didn’t prostrate herself before the cold stone of the Bride’s visage. She stalked up to the statue and began to rail at it.

“What have you done to me?” she hissed. “Is this all some great joke to you? A dead woman in a box? A weak-willed man caught in an impossible situation? These are the people whose fates I’m to decide on a whim?” Rowan paced back and forth, the flames in the candles following her path with the breeze her steps made. 

“I can’t do this! I can’t be some kind of savior to these people, when I don’t even know what in the Maker and Creators’ names I’m doing! Some day I’m going to kill someone, the wrong someone, and it’s all going to come crashing down around us. And he’ll win. That bastard will win, and the City will be breached, and then where will you be?” She banged her hand down on the railing. “What do you want me to do, damn it?”

There was no answer from the marble. She didn’t expect any divine revelations; it would have been nice to get some guidance, but she knew she was on her own to figure out what to do. “Fine. If that’s the way this is going to go, you’d better hoped you picked correctly when you put this Mark on my hand. I’m trying. I really am.” She bowed her head, suddenly exhausted from the weight of the fate of Thedas. “I want to save us all, but I don’t know if I can,” she ended on a whisper.

“Don’t start doubting yourself now,” came a slightly lilting voice from the doorway. “It will only get worse once it creeps in.” Leliana stepped slowly up to the elf. “Trust me, I know from experience.”

“Start doubting?” Rowan turned to meet the Nightingale. “I’ve second guessed every single thing I’ve done since the Conclave. I wasn’t made to be a leader like this. I wasn’t made to be the leader of my own clan, even though I was raised and taught otherwise. But I always knew it wouldn’t be.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t do anything but doubt my choices.” 

“You can trust yourself, Inquisitor. Trust that you know your heart and your mind, and that you’ve surrounded yourself with people who will give you their counsel when you need it, and their opinion when you want it...and when you don’t, which can be just as invaluable.” She put a hand on her arm. “The only mistakes here are in not trying, in giving up and being passive while this war plays out. And that...is not you.” Leliana gifted her with a small smile, which was like sunshine breaking through the crowds. Rowan couldn’t help but respond with a slight grin of her own.

“It is not. I can’t sit idly by while the world falls down. It’s just,” she said on a sigh, “so frustrating, so aggravating to have no idea whether or not anything I do makes a difference.” 

“Come with me.” The redhead inclined her head and turned to the door. Rowan followed her, trying and failing to match the silence in her footsteps. The Spymaster led her up a flight of stairs so that they could overlook the main courtyard of Skyhold easily. She gestured, an arm sweeping to encompass all that they could see. “This is the difference you have made. These people, disparate, desperate, without home or purpose or hope, have come together and made an Inquisition. The soldiers and the councillors and the workers, they’re part of it, yes, but only a part. It is the people you have rallied under the banner that are the true testimony to your abilities. Do not doubt yourself. These people would die for you, and not blindly out of faith, but willingly because they have seen the heart of you, and believe in the cause you fight for.”

“I….” There was really nothing to say. What Leliana had said was too large to respond with verbally. So, she reached out and embraced the other woman, who stiffened for a moment, but then put her arms around her in return. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. You would do the same for me. You have in fact.” At Rowan’s confused look she elaborated. “I felt lost in Haven. You steered me back onto the path I had started to veer from. It was perhaps at that moment I was sure that you were the one sent to us to lead this Inquisition.” She leaned her palms on the erasure and stared out over the keep. “I couldn’t hear the voice of the Maker, the call that I thought I was destined to follow. I was deafened by doubt and anger and thoughts of vengeance. You, with your quiet ways and balanced thinking, helped me to listen, kept me from making foolish and bloody mistakes that would only serve to harden my heart.” She glanced back up at the elf. “You saved me from myself. I will be eternally grateful for that, and for you.” A sort of serenity seemed to settle over Leliana, a calm that covered her not unlike the mantle she wore. In that moment, Rowan saw the Divine that she could be, not just in name, but in her entire being. It was beautiful, and humbling.

The moment passed, and that small smile returned, making her seem almost impish. “Now, if I could take your attention for a few minutes, there are some details I need to discuss with you….” Things appeared to go back to normal, but Rowan knew that she would need to hold onto the memory of the conversation, so that she could call upon it as a bolster if she began to feel overwhelmed again as their struggle continued.


	30. Surely some revelation is at hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stroud and Harding take in the sights in the Western Approach.

“Maybe if you shaved off the mustache.”

He looked as though she had suggested he cut off an arm. 

“Well? It’s rather...distinctive.”

“Why do you not grow another foot?” She glared at him as they made their way across the sand, the light of the stars their only guide.

“Oh, yes, my height is much easier to change than your facial hair.”

“You are infuriating.”

“And you are as stubborn as a Mabari.” She gestured to an outcropping. “Over there.”

He followed her instructions, ducking under the rock as the sand swirled around them. “This should keep us concealed until the storm blows through.” For all of their bickering, the pair had fared well on their journey together. Harding was thoroughly practical when planning routes and scouting reasonable advances for the Inquisition when making headway through unknown territories. She sent small advance groups ahead to plot out trails, finding reasonable areas where the Inquisition could establish secure points for camps throughout the Approach. 

Stroud...was a Warden. And though she could see in his face the strain that the Calling was taking on him, he remained generally uncomplaining and seemingly tireless in his desire to move ever forward toward their goal of finding the other Wardens. And despite his stubborn refusal to change his appearance, which would make them far less of an obvious target, he was steadfastly on guard.

The two of them worked their way through the stark wilderness, fighting raiders and unfriendly animals as they went, her arrows flying sure and true as he showed his unmatched skill in the swipe of his sword. They made a good team, even when running from groups of Venatori or Templars which they wisely avoided whenever possible, and outran when they couldn’t.

“Why?” she finally asked, when the wind had cut down enough that they could actually hear over the screeching of the storm.

“Why what?”

“Why won’t you change your look?”

“This is not the time or place for discussions, Scout Harding.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “This is the perfect time and place, Warden Stroud,” she countered. “We’re going nowhere anytime soon, I’ve made what I feel is a legitimate request, and you’ve dismissed it out of hand.”

“It is not up for debate.” He leaned back against a rock and closed his eyes, effectively blocking her out. Harding huffed lightly in response, and stared out into the swirling sandstorm.

The already twilight-level light diminished, until she could no longer see the sand that enclosed them in their cocoon, cutting them off from the rest of the world. She could still hear the howling, though, and knew that their stay could be extensive if nature saw fit to keep them trapped in their makeshift shelter. It was going to be a long night, with just the taciturn Warden for compan-

“It was my brother’s,” he finally said.

Harding started. “I-”

“The moustache. He was always so proud of it. My older brother. He was a chevalier, a knight in service to the Empire, and he said that something as glorious as his facial hair reflected the might of Orlais. It was ridiculous, of course. A joke that all of us in the family took every opportunity to ridicule. Gently, of course. He was so sensitive, my brother.”

“And he...died.” She knew the answer, which is why it really wasn’t a question.

“Yes. He, and my mother and father, and my sisters. All victims of the Game.” There was a small sound, of leather against leather, and Lace knew it was the tightening of his hand on the grip of his sword. “They are why I wear the Grey. And why I cannot take it off. To do so...to forget for a moment the vow I have sworn, the life I now lead...it will mean the death of many. Myself, yes, which is of no consequence, but there would be countless in Orlais who would taste my steel before I was cut down, of that I would be sure.” His voice was hard, harder than she had heard from anyone before. There was a brittleness, too, as though to strike against his words would cause him to shatter, to break. So she stayed silent.

“The Wardens saved my life. And the lives of dozens of others. For that, I am grateful, and for that, I fight now to return honor to the organization that does so much good, and which has fallen into such disarray. It must be saved, for it is as necessary as our Inquisitor to restore order to the world.” What he said rang true and clear, and she suddenly understood why Jean-Marc Stroud had the reputation he did. She was slightly in awe in that moment as well, of a man with convictions she couldn’t hope to match, and a dedication to duty that she understood only too well.

"You are a good man, Stroud," she said finally. There was little else to say, and even that assurance felt inadequate, or perhaps too much. It was easier to quip, to say something off the cuff, and get a reaction. Sincerity was hard, because it always felt imperfect, as though the words would be weighed, measured, and found lacking in light of the subject matter. But she was no coward, and she had to at least try.

He cleared his throat, and she swore she heard his mustache bristle slightly. It could have just been the sand hitting the stone, however. "Tell me then, Scout Harding, how have you come to the Inquisition, trapped under this rock with a taciturn Grey Warden? Surely this was not the life you foresaw in your childhood." He seemed, if not relaxed, a bit more at ease with her company, the tension of their disagreement broken at last.

She told him then, of her family, of childhood in the Hinterlands, herding sheep with her Mabari, using her mother's jam jars as targets for her sling, which she later used with great efficiency to drive the wolves from the stock. There were town market days when the locals would gather to buy and sell wares, where fresh meat pies would dominate the air with their savory smell, setting mouths watering regardless of the hearty breakfasts they had just finished. Bright colored ribbons danced alongside fine earthen pottery, each vying for attention from passers-by. It was noisy and crowded and jovial and...home.

"Do you miss it, then?" he asked, curiosity coloring his words. She liked that there was no pity, no attempt at empathy, just a genuine desire to know her answer.

She thought for a moment. "I do. And I don't. It was a constant in life, and I would give anything to have it back to normal in my hometown, for everyone there. And if I had never left, I would be crushed that I couldn't do all the day to day things I used to. But with the Inquisition. . .I've seen the world." There was wonder in her voice. "I've seen the best and worst of Thedas, at least so far, and been frozen and boiling and wet and dry...it's been amazing. I wouldn’t trade it for a lifetime of market days." She stared out into the blackness. "Even here. I'm in the Western Approach, in Orlais, talking with one of the mysterious Grey Wardens about my life. I could never have had that sitting at home and tending the sheep. I'm living now, alive and in the midst of it all."

"You are unique, Scout Harding."

"You're still as stubborn as a Mabari, Warden Stroud. But I happen to like Mabari." She smiled, and she was fairly certain, though it was dark beyond seeing, that he returned the grin.

They took turns through the night, keeping watch for anyone foolhardy enough to venture out to attack them in a skin-shredding sandstorm. By the morning, the sky was clear, a piercing, eye-watering blue that had them both wary of stepping into exposure. But, they had a mission, and they couldn’t stop for the fear of death.

The uneven terrain and natural caves helped them on their journey, giving them both hiding places and moments of respite in the extreme temperatures of the day. “Andraste’s blessing, it’s hot,” Harding said at one point.

“It doesn’t get better between here and our destination,” Stroud said with the same stoicism that tinged almost every word from his mouth. 

“No, why would it? Blazing heat does wonders for both morale and my skin,” she replied, looking down at her reddened arms. “Maybe this is why dwarves were meant to be underground.” They had stopped briefly at a small oasis, and after drinking enough to take away the immediate feeling of desert in their mouths, the Warden reached in and scooped some of the muck from the bottom. She looked at him aside. “Am I missing something?” Lace asked as he approached her.

“Coating yourself in mud will help to deflect the worst of it, and will soothe the skin as well.” He gestured to her burns. “Trust me, Scout Harding. I am a Warden, after all.” His face didn’t so much as twitch.

Her grin rivaled the ever-present sun. “There is a sense of humor beneath the facial hair! I’ll be damned.”

“If one of us is, it would be me,” he said simply, and started to slather the mud onto her. The cooling effect was immediate, and she stifled a groan of relief.

“Careful, Warden, or we may just end up friends.” When he was done, she was markedly dirtier, but blessedly cool.

“Let us survive this first.”

“Always the pragmatist. As you like, Warden. But when we’re done with this mission, you and I are having ale and small talk. I’d like to find out what other survival secrets you have hidden away in that Orlesian mind of yours.” They set off again, never stopping for more than a few minutes at a time, always pressing on towards an unknown and uncertain goal. 

She knew they were close when he stumbled. No, stumble wasn’t the right word. It was a hitch in Stroud’s step, but it was so unlike his regular measured gait that Lace noticed it right away. She put a hand out to him, but he waved it away. “It’s fine,” he said tightly.

There was a structure in the distance, made hazy and wavering from the sheets of pure heat that rose from the barren ground. But even from where they stood, she knew it was ancient. “Is that what we’ve been looking for?”

“If not, there is something else going on far worse than the Calling,” he replied. “But yes, I believe that’s what we’ve been looking for.”

It seemed to sit on the edge of the world, the Tevinter ruin that awaited them. Even from far away, it seemed sinister, menacing. It was a blight on a Blighted land, scarring a barren waste with its presence. “I suppose we wait now.”

“Yes,” he replied, with that same clipped voice that she would normally think indicated impatience, but she knew, for Stroud, that there was pain he was trying to contain, as he attempted to hold onto the mask of chivalry that so defined him as the untouchable Grey Warden.

Scanning the area quickly, with skill borne of necessity, she steered them towards yet another dilapidated structure, stones laying haphazardly atop and beside one another, farther away than she would normally prefer from their quarry, but the tension around Stroud’s face seemed to lessen with the increased distance.

They passed the time side by side, silently, constantly waiting for any noise that might indicate their inevitable discovery. Eventually, far too slowly for their comfort, the sun set beyond the horizon, casting long shadows before the twilight settled in. And when at last the darkness came over the land, the moon not yet rising, they made their move. This time she did put her hand on Stroud, and shook her head. “Let me go.”

“This is my fight.”

“This is your war. Let me scout. It’s in my title, after all.” She gave him a small smile that she knew he wouldn’t return. “You can come in swinging if you hear me scream, alright?”

“You’d die before you’d scream.” 

“You’ve never seen me around giant spiders...or staring down the side of a cliff.” He was right, though, and they both knew it. “Just stay put, Warden. I’ll do my job. Then we can call in the reinforcements.” She was off before he could respond, making her way across the sand as quickly as she could while staying silent and hidden. 

Lace kept to the shadows along the bridge, luckily, oddly, encountering no one as she went. Until she got to the main part of the tower, and stopped dead in her tracks. For as long as she could stand she watched the rituals, knowing, deep down, that it was all so wrong, before taking off quickly, back to their hiding place, back to the relative sanity of an afflicted Grey Warden and a darkness that held untold dangers. It was better than...that.

“We need them.”

“Who?” he asked as he started to stand.

“All of them. The entire Inquisition. This is worse than we could have imagined. And we need to get away. Now. Yesterday.” The whites of her eyes were visible in the pre-moon darkness, and for once Stroud didn’t protest, just let her lead them away from his goal, the apparently necessary retreat chafing at him. But the little dwarf with the stalwart bearing was terrified, and he knew this was no time to argue. With stuttering sentences she told him what she saw, and he increased his own pace to give them distance from the anathema she had seen. This was bigger than he was, bigger than he could have possibly pictured in his worst ‘spawn-driven nightmares. And he knew, in that moment, that his time was to come at last, to answer the song, to preserve the Wardens with his sacrifice.


	31. I was neither living nor dead, and I knew nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the right decisions aren't the best, and the best decisions aren't right.

It was wet. The water clung to him like the coldest of unrelenting sweats. It made his greyish skin shimmer, or it would have if the sun came out for one fucking minute on the Storm Coast. But that was far too much to ask of whatever power decided what the weather should be in Thedas. He didn’t give a damn, he was just tired of being soaked through. Though he never showed it to his men. His bitching wasn’t their problem, his discomfort not their issue. Their job was to fight, to win, to be the best damn group of mercenaries the continent had ever seen. And as far as he could tell, they were.

And then he was sent the note from his employ-his people, he emphasized internally. He was Qunari; to even think of himself as other than part of the whole in truth was to become Tal Vashoth, and he had known no other life but the Qun, even for all of his debauchery and excess that went against the strict tenets, he know he was doing it for the greater good of his people and nation. There hadn’t been a declaration strictly decrying any of the behaviours he was emulating, and he knew if they came under a microscope, he would be as clean as the driven snow when they were done. But that was a conversation for another day, one that didn’t have as dire of consequences attached to it.

“Well Boss, here we are. Any questions?” This was beyond gaining trust. Rowan knew that she was wanted, needed by the Inquisition as a leader who had overcome obstacles to win their loyalty.

And then he truly opened his eyes and realized what she was wearing.

“Do you have any idea of what that means?” he asked, gesturing to the cloth that covered the more sensitive parts of her body. “Hell, if you and I were alone, we could have some fun,” he jested. The antaam-saar suited her in a way it wouldn’t have most, hugging her curves but allowing for enough modesty to know she wasn’t wearing it as a mockery or an enticement. The knots at the arms were tied properly; she had done her homework. Of course she had, she didn’t leave such things to chance, which was why he followed her willingly. It was a genuine gesture of solidarity.

She quirked one of those eyebrows at him that expressed whole paragraphs in a slight gesture. “I also know that if you happened to try and defile this, Bull, I would be completely in my right to strangle you with the very ropes at my arms.” She smiled, her amusement belying the severity of her words.

He roared with laughter, caught by his own comments; of course caught. If she had researched the proper wearing of the outfit she would have also looked into its meaning and deliberately chosen it, eschewing the less-revealing Shokra-taar for the sake of correctness. She may have been bas, but more than that she was basalit-an, and knew enough to find out the meaning of things, her curiosity and typical mage-like thirst for knowledge driving her on to find out even the minute details of how to wear the knotted bands that rested against her skin. She would never have belittled his culture or embarrassed him deliberately. Even though he called her “Boss,” it’s why he thought of her as a...friend, a completely un-Qun-like thing to do, that individual relationship between two people. It was the similar with the Chargers, though he still gave them orders, still knew the line between camaraderie and command. He could send them to their graves, would if he had to. Even for her. Especially for her.

“Good to see you again, Hissrad.” That was the moment he knew everything was going to go to shit.

Having Gatt there was...unexpected. Well, he didn’t expect it. He was sure the Ben Hassarath knew exactly what the hell they were doing when they brought him in, a reminder of the work he had done, the good he had accomplished as a member of the Qun. If the situation wasn’t so serious he would have laughed uproariously at the skillful manipulation of those in charge. _‘Remember who you are, Hissrad. Remember that you’re a member of an organization that Koslun himself would be proud to claim. Remember.’_ Oh, he remembered alright, remembered the choking sounds of the dying as they laid out, tiny body writhing in pain before being locked in the rictus of permanent sleep where they could not return from. And if he had been alone, if he hadn’t been on a job, hadn’t known where his duties lay, he would have been sick. Hell, he was sick, he just wouldn’t lose his lunch in front of his men. That wasn’t how a leader acted.

“Alright, Boss. You heard Gatt. We need to clear the way, bring the dreadnought in to take care of the ‘Vint bastards. So, keep your distance from Dorian. Those cannons can smell one of them halfway out to see.”

“You’re a magnificent ass, you grey-skinned barbarian. I can’t be the first to point this out.” He loved the rise he could get out of the Altus. It was one of the highlights of his day if he was being honest with himself, which he rarely was. The moniker made sense to him in a way far different from its original intention, because lying about who he was, inside, had become a way of life, and until he had joined the Inquisition, despite the name change among the Chargers, he hadn’t truly found something that challenged the steadfastness of the Qun in any way that would satisfy him and his insatiable thirst for knowledge. 

The tiny little Dalish mage with sapphires for eyes made him think new things, had him picturing a life beyond the philosophy that defined him as much as his horns. She was different, as unlike her elven people as a fish from a cat. And that made him wonder if just because he was the horned savage from Seheron, if he couldn’t be something more, rather than just pretend. Obfuscate. Lie. He wanted to be more for her, for the cause, more than just a mask, a facade of jovial drunkenness with a strong arm and a thick head. The Lavellan drove those thoughts through his mind, and they drove him mad with frustration and indecision, experiences that had sent him to the Ben-Hassrath the last time he had felt them.

“Is it as bad as you said to Gatt?” she asked, voice low, when she was sure they were out of the elf’s hearing.

“It’s worse. The whole thing has the potential for a clusterfuck of massive proportions. I wouldn’t have done any of it this way. Then again, that’s why I’m Ben Hassrath and not Kithshok. If I ran the armies we’d have taken half of Thedas by now.” He smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The situation set his teeth on edge for no reason he could put his finger on. She didn’t return the grin.

“I don’t-”

“Get ready for a fight, Hissrad. I know these aren’t the soft little mages you’re used to here in Ferelden, so hopefully you’ve kept your axe sharper than your muscles,” Gatt said as he approached them, sword drawn.

“Big talk, tiny elf. Don’t forget to stand cowering behind me like you always did. I don’t know if it was my protection or my ass you liked, but you spent enough time there that it could have been both.” Mindless banter freed his thoughts to come up with strategy, consider different approaches to what lay ahead. The taunts came to him easily; he didn’t have to focus to sling an insult.

The Venatori waited for them, spells flung in his face as he charged in and hewn them with mighty swings, the magic sliding off his vitaar like oil over water. Battle stirred him, invigorated him, made him come alive, fire running through his veins as the blood of his enemies splashed against his skin in a grotesque shower of death. It was glorious, and he shouted wordlessly as another fell before his strength, names forgotten, uncertainty left behind as all that remained in his sights was the fight, the crunch of bone under his axe, the slightest resistance as it left the body of the nearest Tevene and made its deadly journey through the air to steal the life of another.

The quiet after the skirmish. That almost supernatural quiet that followed the cries of battle made him shudder in nearly sexual release. There was no sound of the dying; he didn’t leave dying. There were those that attacked, and there were those that were dead. That was it. He was barely breathing hard; it hadn’t really been a fair fight for the ‘Vints. But they weren’t playing fair, so he didn’t give a rat’s ass about that.

“Go ahead, Gatt, signal the dreadnought. Unless you need me to do that for you, too.”

“Can’t say I missed your mouth, Hissrad.”

“Gets you too choked up when you try, huh?”

The tinder lit quickly; in the damp it would have been impossible without the addition of the gaatlock, but its hissing flare allowed the fire to burn brightly so the ship hidden in the fog blanketing the water knew it was time to approach. The sight of its massive hull cutting through the waves stirred a basic pride in Bull, admiration for a beautiful instrument that played a deadly tune whenever it was near. And true to its purpose, it made short work of the Venatori vessel that was hugging the coast. He had to admit, it wasn’t a plan he would have put into action, but-a movement on the beach caught his eye.

“Crap.”

Rowan moved to his side, followed his gaze between the mages and the Chargers, who stood unaware of their impending doom. “They still have time to retreat if you signal them now.”

“Yeah.”

“Your men need to hold that position.” Gatt’s voice was flinty.

He looked down at the agent, anger and agony warring in his gaze. “They do that, they’re dead.” And that was the crux of it, even as the other man went on about responsibilities and the Qun and his own ultimate fate as Tal Vashoth. Those were his men, _his men_ , ones he could save with a sounding of his horn, who wouldn’t have to throw their lives away for a belief-no. Who wouldn’t have to throw their lives away for him, even though they would without hesitation or a thought to the contrary. They knew their roles, as he thought he had known his.

A small, cold hand on his arm brought his attention to the one whose choice ultimately mattered to him. Gatt could rave at him until the rain eroded the cliff they stood on, but if she said to save the dreadnought, that was what would happen. She was the boss. “Call the retreat, _Bull_ ,” she said, emphasizing his chosen name as ‘Hissrad’ spit from the other elf’s lips. As he blew the horn that signaled salvation for the Chargers, the look she shot the Ben Hassrath agent should have sent the little man running. Bull had seen that expression once before, at Halamshiral, after finding the body of a little girl sliced open and left like so much meat on the floor of the servant’s quarters. There was death in her eyes.

She would have done more, he was sure, but at that moment his hand on her shoulder stopped her approach, and he shook his head slightly.

“You’d throw away all that you are for this? For them?”

“It’s so quaint how you Qunari equate nationality and personal identity. It’s adorable, really. But the decision’s been made, so why don’t you scoot along and go back to your grey-skinned beast lords, Git, was it?”

Bull was never speechless. He always had something to say, because speaking, not just listening, was how information was gathered. But the fact that Dorian Pavus had spoken up in his, well, in the decision’s defense drove all words from his lips and his mind. Even the Boss’ eyes widened at his words. Gatt had a similar reaction as he sputtered off into silence before glaring at the Tevene and stalking off, likely to announce Bull’s new rank as Tal Vashoth to the rest of the Ben Hassrath. 

Bull looked back at the Altus, who shrugged, the perfect example of nonchalance. “Tiring little ass of a man.”

The sounds from the water drew their attention back to the destruction of the dreadnought. He explained absently that the ship wouldn’t sink a heartbeat before it exploded magnificently. The heat could be felt even from their position, and the ground trembled slightly. It seemed fitting that the end of his entire life to that point was marked with fiery destruction. He stared a moment longer at the burning timbers floating on the surface of the water, before turning back to the others.

“Let’s get back to my men.”

\-------

Gatt had been waiting when they returned to officially announce his Tal Vashoth status and inform the Inquisition that there would be no more support from the Qun. The Inquisitor had done little more than shrug at his statements, which Bull could tell, to his own small satisfaction, riled the Ben Hassrath to no end. He had wanted an excuse to start something; that had always been Gatt’s problem, a temper that he didn’t even have a desire to keep in check. He’d burn out eventually, have to be retrained by the Qun...hell, that wasn’t his problem anymore, was it? 

His thoughts had kept him from noticing that the Boss had approached the other elf, saying something in a low voice that made Gatt obviously pale. She placed her palm on his chest and Bull smelled the cold of her magic a moment before frost spread from her fingers onto the breastplate of his leather armor. When she pulled her fingers away, there was an imprint of her hand with the symbol of the Inquisition etched perfectly in the center of it. “Remember what I say here, Ben Hassrath. I wore the Qun’s armor out of respect, an acknowledgement that I understood the seriousness of the arrangement that was to come. I agreed to meet with you because an alliance would have served us both well. But you and those you represent are willing to throw all that away because we determined that the lives of our soldiers were worth saving. That is not an alliance this Inquisition wants, or needs.” She nodded, and two soldiers approached from the shadows. “Please escort him from Skyhold. Do not darken the Inquisition’s doorstep again.” She turned to look at Bull, eyes flashing with that same cold anger from before, but it shifted immediately when she met his gaze, and she was his Boss again. “Go, see the Chargers, get settled. We’ll talk later.” Her eyes may have softened, but there was no arguing with the tone in her voice.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid her sympathy, that he couldn’t wave off her concern and worry anymore than he could grow back his eye. He didn’t need it, didn’t even know if he wanted it, mostly because he hadn’t had it before. He was also smart enough to know that it was part of who she was; she couldn’t help but try and comfort where there was pain. He’d seen it with almost everyone else in the Inquisition; he hadn’t thought he’d ever be on the receiving end, or would ever be in a position to have it be an issue.

And so he found himself outside the Rest later that same day as she approached, brown hair flowing down over her shoulders as she came, moving with elegant purpose even when she stumbled slightly over a rock in her path. The Boss was a force to be reckoned with, though he knew she didn’t see herself that way. But he had watched her from the beginning of their association, and could see why she was Inquisitor, maybe even see why the human god’s bride would have chosen her as Herald, if he believed in any of that. It still didn’t mean he had to like what was coming.

“Hey Boss.”

“How are you, Bull?” She didn’t give him time to interact, just immediately went for the question that he didn’t know the answer to. 

He deflected. “I’ll have more time on my hands now that I don’t have to write those reports.”

“I mean it, you ass. I want to know the truth.” She narrowed her eyes in consternation.

“Just leave this one alone, Boss. Let me have it.” 

“Have what? The knowledge that you lost everything that made you who you are because of a decision you knew was right?” She pushed at him, trying to relate, to show him the common ground they stood on. “I think I know how that is, so you can’t wrap yourself up in guilt and self-loathing and hide behind some damn wall of indifference.”

“Then you know I need to handle this my way, Boss. I know you want to help, but you can’t. No one can, and yeah, you know that better than anyone, don’t you?”

She backed away, and the sympathy in her eyes would have shattered him if he wasn’t already broken. “You’re right. I do. Bull….”

“Yeah Boss.” His voice was thick. “I know. Thanks.”

Krem’s approach broke the tension of the moment, and the strange lightness he felt at watching him walk up, alive, none the worse for wear, reminded him that it was all worthwhile, everything he had given up, everything he had lost. It was for them, his men, his people. He looked back at Rowan, and she smiled slightly, nodding. She understood, because she had done the same.


	32. Let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friend departs in grief, and our Inquisitor gets a new name.

The Exalted Plains had been harder than she had expected.  When Solas had asked her to accompany him, to help save his spirit friend, she had agreed without question.  She hadn’t seen her ha'hren agitated like that since...well, she had never seen him in that state.  He always put forth a cool exterior, an even temper that may have unnerved others with its calmness, but it put her at ease.

That...vulnerability tugged at her heart, and she wanted to drive that away moreso even than the ever-present sadness.  So, she gathered Bull and Varric, and set out to do what she could to soothe him.  But she was not prepared for what awaited them.  

Those foolish, arrogant mages.  They didn’t understand what they had done to that creature; they only saw the pride demon that had emerged as a result of their spell.  They played with powers they didn’t comprehend, didn’t remotely understand, and disaster struck as result.  He was nearly insensate with rage, and she saw what he couldn’t in his anger, taking the opportunity to remove the barriers and release it from its prison as it raged.  She had the other two guard her back, but keep their distance, distracting the demonic form so she could work, pushing her magic quickly to shatter the pillars.

It was over almost before it began.  Pride relinquished its hold on Wisdom, and a woman’s form knelt on the ground.  As Solas ran to kneel before the spirit, Rowan knew it was too late, that there was yet another victim of folly and arrogance.

“I am myself again,” it said in Elvhen, before fading away before them.  She wept for the spirit she would never know, and the loss that Solas had to endure, another to add to the burden behind his eyes. She went to place her hand on his shoulder, and he froze for the briefest of moments, barely leaning into the touch.  But his grief quickly turned to wrath as he stood to face the mages.

She knew what he meant to do a heartbeat before he raised his hands, and she threw her shield up, a brittle wall of snow, too fast, too hasty, but shards of shattered ice was a better fate for those fools than the rage-induced fire that he had procured.   His anger turned from them to her in a heartbeat, and he bore down on her.  Behind him, she saw Bull and Varric move the imbeciles to relative safety as she stood her ground against her grieving friend.

“No, Solas! No more death today.”

“They tortured and killed it, twisted it from its purpose!  What about that does not deserve retribution?”

“There will be a reckoning, but not like this, not slaughter.  They will answer for their crimes.”

“Who will judge the life of a spirit? Who will speak for it but me?” There was anguish in his voice,  behind the anger.

“I will, 'ma falon.”  He held the flame in his hand still, and she brought her palms, bathed in frost, to smother it.  The shock of the mingling temperatures brought him back to himself, and he looked at her for the first time since she had released the spirit from its bindings, the misery in his eyes almost crushing her.  “As Inquisitor, it is my duty, and as your friend, it is my responsibility.”

The anger slid back as he clamped down on the ferocity of his emotions. “Lethal’lan…I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold.” He let his hand linger between hers for a moment longer, before turning and disappearing over the hills, an injured animal gone to find a secluded place to heal.  She watched after him, saying a silent prayer as he walked out of sight.

***********

She pulled her knees up to her chest, and stared out over the water.  Behind her, the old Elvhen ruins stood, the gravestone of a civilization long passed on to the wanderings of the Dalish.  

He wanted to paint her with words.  He’d thought that often when watching her.  But where Hawke was movement, constant motion that flowed across the page with an almost frantic heated energy, she was frozen stillness, the eerie calm after a blizzard blows itself out.  His pen hesitated to move, to capture what she was, her essence.  She was that mysterious muse that most writers yearned for.  And he wanted her, too, the beauty on the page, the controlled power in each letter he formed about her, the deep sadness in a swirled flourish.  Rowan could be his masterpiece, more than the woman he...more than Hawke, because she wasn’t his. Not fully.  He could detach himself, see her without the filter of adoration that made his Champion larger than life.

And he knew, then.  Knew the answer the the question that had been haunting him since meeting her.  It was almost ironic, but it was as true as it was tongue in cheek.  “Grace.”

She turned then, eyes wide with blue that you could get lost in if you weren’t careful, that color between sky and sea.  She quirked a smile.  “What was that?”

“Your nickname.  I feel like a nug-humping idiot for missing it before.  Grace.”

She threw her head back and laughed, a free sound that was too often missing from her life.  “Oh, that is too good.  Yes,” she said, as she wiped back a tear from her eye.  “It’s...ridiculously fitting.  You win, Varric.”  The Commander was a goner, if he didn’t already know that.  As he’d told Hawke, in that tone that was always too familiar to be anything but a jest, if his heart hadn’t already been set on the path of immolation by loving _her_ , he likely would have been just as deeply under this elf’s spell as Curly undoubtedly was. Not to mention Chuckles and his "detached and self-defeating love from afar." It was cliché enough to make his quill quiver.

“So, tell me, Inquisitorialness, are we waiting for the water to do something exciting?  Sprout wings? Reveal the secrets of the universe?”

The smile left her face, and she was pensive again.  “I...do you ever wonder, Varric, why? Why in the Maker and Creators’ names we’re out here, fighting this thing, instead of cowering under our beds, waiting for someone else to lead?”

“In my case, someone else is leading.” He moved to sit next to her.  He’d found over the years that talking to someone’s back was decidedly less interesting than seeing their expressions.  You could learn a book’s worth of knowledge from the twitch of a person’s eye. “But I wonder, every damn day, how I got dragged into another scheme to save a shitload of ungrateful people who’ll forget your name an hour after all of this is over.  Except for anything negative that happened under your watch.  That will last an eternity.  It’s the way of the hero.”

“That would explain Hawke’s unique take on life.”

"Being run out of town is a specialty of hers, " he agreed. "She takes a kind of pride in listing off places she's been banned from. Not that a little thing like rules would keep Hawke out if she set her mind to it."  There was a stone in front of him, just a small thing, worn smooth by the lapping water over time. He picked it up, letting it play through his fingers like a coin before setting it skimming over the water, where it danced upon the surface a dozen times before disappearing into the depths. "To answer your question, I wonder every damn day.  But someone has to do it. And heroes are just the poor luckless bastards who end up at the front of an army, because they can't turn away from the shit that's happening."

"Hawke again?"

"No. You." She looked skeptical, and he continued. "From day one, you've thrown yourself into fighting Corypheus. No hesitation, no retreat. Hell, you brought a mountain down on yourself to try and stop him. And that was just the start."

"There was no other option!" she protested.

"Of course there was," he said matter-of-factly. "You didn't have to throw those doors open at the Chantry and face down your death. You could have run like everyone else. But you didn't. Makes you a hero, whether you like it or not."

"That wasn't the plan. I just didn't want anyone else dying because of me." She looked back out over the water, a hitch in her voice. "I still don't."

"No one wants to die. But they're willing so that they can stop this shit from happening and give the rest of Thedas a chance to screw it up in some new and exciting way." His smile was grim. "The world goes to hell, someone fixes it, and it starts all over again. But every time it's fixed, there's a hope that it'll be the last time we'll need rescuing. Never happens, but the hope comes back every time.”

“Hope.  It’s a beautiful word...and far too scarce in the story we’re creating, isn’t it?”

“Are you kidding?  It’s everywhere, even if we’re not saying it.  You’ve got elves and humans and dwarves and Qunari all working together.  Hell, there’s a hulking Avvar working as an agent of the Inquisition.  Chantry sisters, Templars and mages are living under the same roof and none of them have killed each other yet.”

She smiled very slightly.  “And we have Dorian.”

“Ah, the rebel Tevinter.  He’ll get a starring role in this story when all’s said and done.”

“Cassandra will be crushed if you don’t include her.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said with a wicked grin.  “I have something planned out for her already.”

Rowan looked at him with concern. “She has a large sword and a short temper.  I hope you’ve considered this thoroughly.”

“She’s already kidnapped me, stabbed me in the book, threatened my life numerous times...what’s one more near death experience?”

“I suppose you could always soothe her with another chapter of Swords & Shields.”

“This is why you’re the Inquisitor.  You come up with solutions for the tough problems.”  She laughed again, and while it wasn’t as free as before, the tension and sadness eased, and she seemed to come to a decision before nodding and moving off of the rock.  

“I think I’ve asked enough of the river today.  Let’s go back to Skyhold; there should be some word from Harding and Stroud soon. And, hopefully, Solas will be there before long.”

“Chuckles’ll come back.  We all deal with the rough shit differently, but he’s not leaving you before the work is done.”

She glanced in the direction where the spirit had met its end.  “I know.  I just worry for him.”

“He’ll be fine.  Some guys are broody bastards.  And he’s got nothing on Fenris, trust me.”  He gestured toward the tree where Bull was dozing.  “Let’s get Tiny up and get moving.”

“I see why Hawke keeps you around, Author.” She met his eyes, smiled again. “Thank you for...thank you for being my friend.”

“Anytime, Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grace:  
> 1\. Simple elegance or refinement of movement:  
> 2\. Unmerited divine assistance given for regeneration or sanctification


	33. More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those of similar features and unlike minds are encountered; a wolf licks his wounds.

It had seemed so simple to enter the Exalted Plains; perhaps it was merely Solas’ urgency that made the journey feel so straightforward.  They had barely stopped to rest as they traveled to save the spirit that ultimately was lost to her ha'hren through the haste of the ignorant.  But as they made their way back to Skyhold, reduced by one member of their party, the trip seemed endless, and the haphazard violence that they witnessed as they went along did nothing to diminish the feeling that the world was never going to be whole again, no matter how hard they worked to put things right.

But then.

Then she saw the halla, golden and beautiful in the light of day, standing apart from her plainer brethren.  Rowan knew the legends, but had always assumed them fanciful tales for children, even as her Bae had insisted that they were true. “Hanal'ghilan,” she breathed, barely daring to approach the creature.  Of course, the wild halla, being skittish towards those it was unfamiliar with, darted away. She followed at a distance, wanting to keep the animal safe, because its uniqueness would obviously make it a target for any hunters in the area.

“Something we should know about this thing, Boss?” Bull asked as they followed her.  “I’m not sure how well it would get along with Dennet’s other charges back in Skyhold.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t tolerate that,” Rowan replied absently, clambering over a boulder as the deer-like creature bounded over rocks, heading toward what she suspected was a river, from the sound of rushing water.  “Halla are very particular about...everything.  They have a mind of their own, and will tolerate only so much before making their independent natures known.”

“Sounds like Hawke’s mabari,” Varric said with a chuckle.  “Smart and stubborn.”

They followed along in the animal’s wake,  until a flash of color to the south caught her eye, and it didn’t take her long to figure out what she was seeing.  “Aravels.” Her stomach sank in something akin to dread.  She had to remind herself that the Lavellans were still in the Marches, and whatever clan it was, they wouldn’t know her except in a passing reference. These were strangers, no different from any other group of people she had met along the way.  She kept reminding herself of that fact as she neared them, the little golden halla winding its way along the riverbank, seemingly with the same destination in mind.

“En'an'sal'en,” she called out as she approached, hands off of her weapons.  Her companions automatically did the same.  Accidentally starting a feud with a group of Dalish was no one’s idea of a wise move.   It was a simple task to tell who the clan’s Keeper was; not only the distinctive robes but the air of authority was apparent in his very being, and she made sure to address him first.

A gasp rose up from behind her. “Hanal'ghilan!” exclaimed the young Dalish man who was surrounded by a small group of halla.  The golden animal slid elegantly alongside Rowan, before taking its place among the herd.  “You have brought good fortune to us, Lethal’lan.”

“An'daran Atish'an,” the Keeper said, “you are welcome here, da’len. I am Hawen.” He glanced down at her hand, where the faint green glow was ever-present, and then back to her face.  “You are the Inquisitor,” he said.  “But I had heard that the Herald of the shem’s Andraste was one of the People.”

She would not feel shame at her lack of vallaslin.  Her choice all those years ago was the correct one, and she willed the flush of embarrassment away.  “I did not take the markings, Keeper. I am a child of the city as much as of the Dales, and to distinguish myself as one would be to devalue the other. So I keep the traditions of both worlds to the best of my ability.”  The older Dalish narrowed his eyes at her explanation, and she knew that she was found wanting, but she could not answer less than truthfully when so much was dependent upon her trustworthiness.

“As you say, Inquisitor. You are not of my clan, it is not for me to judge.  And you have brought the golden halla, so Ghi'lan'na'in looks upon you with favor.” Despite his welcoming words, his voice was flat, and she fought the urge to run and hide as she had so often as a child, to wait until she had been forgotten about and the rest of the tribe’s attention was turned elsewhere for a short time. Instead, she straightened her shoulders  

“My name is Rowan, daughter of Revasan Lavellan.” She was careful not to take the last name for herself among the People.  To do so would be to lay claim to a family she no longer had, never truly had if she was being honest with herself.  “I wished only to greet others of the Dalish, and to make sure that you have been safe while the battles rage across the river.”

“You do us a kindness, Inquisitor,” the Keeper said, tone softening slightly.  “We have been looking for safer passage to move away from the conflict, and two of our hunters are scouting for better routes.  We have been fortunate that the fighting has not come this far.”

“With your hunters otherwise occupied, I suspect your supplies have not been as ample as normal,” she replied, and pulled her pack around.  “Please accept these on my behalf and the Inquisition’s.”

He gestured away her provisions. “While you may be of the People, your Inquisition is not, and I cannot trust it.”

“Do not let false pride harm your clan, ha'hren,” she said evenly, but there was heat behind the words. “The People help one another when there is a need.  It is the way of things.”

He looked startled for a moment, almost angry that someone would speak against him in such a manner, but then he nodded his head.  “You are correct, da’len.  You were raised well.  ‘Ma serannas for your gifts; they will be put to good use.” He signaled to another Dalish, who came and collected the herbs and pelts with a nod of thanks.  There was a moment’s hesitation before he continued, as though he struggled with what he was about to say.  “And your Inquisition is welcome to trade with us, should the need arise.”

Her smile was genuine and bright. “Nuvas ema ir’enastela, Keeper. If your clan has need of the Inquisition, you need only ask. The Breach is a threat to everyone.”

She was introduced to the clan’s trader, and they made a few purchases before leaving; the stores weren’t high in quantity, but the quality of goods couldn’t be argued.  She made a note to tell Belle about opening up negotiations for trade between the two groups.  It would be mutually beneficial for the clan to have a regular supply line they could rely on for staples, and they would profit handsomely from their unique products that the Orlesians would find quaintly fashionable while the rest of the world would actually appreciate the workmanship.  She quickly got lost among the familiar bustle of a Dalish encampment, occasionally glancing up at her companions to ensure they weren’t being accosted or treated poorly.

Bull and Varric watched from the edges of the camp, leaning against a boulder by the water, as she made her way from person to person. “How the hell does she do this?”

The dwarf shrugged. “I can negotiate with the best of them and lie with the worst, but she just...does things.  Makes me a little more convinced she was actually picked for this job by someone higher up on the food chain.”

"There's no food chain under the Qun. This kind of shit is just luck." But he looked a bit contemplative at Varric's statement; something new to think about with the extra time on his hands.

“You know, you're Tal Vashoth now...you don't have to recite from Koslun anymore. I'm not going to run and tell the Qun about your expanding philosophy.”

Bull raised his eyebrow at him, the eye underneath hard, his expression warning the dwarf that his teasing had gone a bit too far.

"Right. That was...sorry."

The Qunari visibly relaxed, and gave him a small smirk. "It's alright; being a dwarf, your skull is stone-thick anyway. I've actually expected more dumbass statements from you than I've gotten."

Varric seemed to mull that over. "Fair enough. So, we're good then?" 

"As long as you get the next round at the bar, we are. Nothing washes away your philosophy getting shit on better than ale."

Varric laughed heartily at that, and Rowan glanced back at the two of them, smiling.  “Something amusing?”

“Just discussing who has the next round when we get back to Skyhold.”

“I’m glad you two are focusing on the important things,” she said dryly, and turned her attention to a young man who had the face of someone on the cusp of adulthood, and the enthusiasm of one who hadn’t seen enough of life’s hardships to make him jaded.  There was an exchange between the two of them and the Keeper, who finally nodded his assent, before the youth went running off to the clan’s sleeping area.  Rowan came back to meet them, pack filled with Dalish goods, and glanced behind her.  “We have a new member of the Inquisition, it seems,” she told them, and waited to introduce the elf, Loranil, to the others.  “Keeper Hawen has agreed to let him come with us.”

“I’m eager to help stop the evil of this Breach, for my clan and for all that are affected.”  He was serious when he spoke, but there was a bounce to his step that betrayed his eagerness and impatience.

“Curly’s going to love you, kid,” Varric said, and slapped the young elf on the back.  “Welcome to the party.”

\-----------

No amount of solitude would calm his anger, no logical assurances assuage his guilt that yet another creature had died because of the folly of the mortals that plagued the land that once belonged to his people. They were infants playing with an inferno, and she...she had stayed his hand. She had the temerity to put herself between him and their well-deserved fate. What arrogance she had, that silly little Dalish child, what...pride.

That thought alone stopped his internal tirade.   To rail against her would be to draw attention to his own hubris that had brought so many low, himself included.  And if he was honest, it wasn’t her he was angry with, it was himself.  He’d been among them for such a short period of time, and had seen so little to recommend their continued existence.  He didn’t want to see them as worthy of any form of salvation, because that simply made the decisions he had to make that much more difficult.  No, no, it was better to remember that they were insignificant in the grander scheme of life, barely a footnote on a page in the lives of the Elvhen.

But she...how had she become something more than a means to an end?  Stumbling, wide-eyed, bare-faced for no more reason than a gut instinct, grasping at hope; she wasn’t supposed to mean anything to him, one who had seen worlds rise and fall, empires erect and crumble. And yet his traitorous mind and heart brought her to the forefront of his thoughts at the most inopportune times, a visual conscience that he had no use for, no time for while he made his plans and steered the Inquisition subtly in the direction he needed it to go.  He didn’t need her eyes, so blue that they rivaled the magic of Arlathan in their complexity, looking at him with empathy, as though he needed her to feel for him, care for him. She was nothing but an ant, or a morning glory that would wilt with the setting sun, forgotten before the moon rose.

And yet...he wanted to be more for her.  Wanted...things he had no right to desire, a life he could not live on the path he had to travel. Her voice, soft and serious, tried to break down the carefully constructed barriers that he had spent millennia reinforcing with magic and will. And that....

Magic gathered in his clenched fist, bright and green and glowing with gathered power.  He would not think of her as anything more than a child, a falling leaf, an ant. Yes. Nothing more than a bug to be crushed under his heel as he healed the world, made it once again in the image of Elvhen beauty.  Beauty like the snowy paleness of her skin, cheeks flushed slightly with the exertion of casting a spell that had the look of frost etched on a windowpane...delicate, and fleeting, and perfect.

He was a fool. The ball of verdant power shot from his hand and the hillside before him disintegrated. A fool to let himself be brought under her sway, and a more a fool to want to be, to crave her smile, her touch, to hear her say again that there was room for the wolf in her soul.  He had distanced himself, taken her memories, encouraged that golden-haired human to share his heart with her, all so that temptation would be removed from him. And even with all of his careful work...she was there. Always in his mind, waking or sleeping, a hand on his shoulder to guide him to see the wonder in the finite, the joy in mortality.  She was so very alive, despite her limited years, and he...he merely existed, for all the time he could revel in eternity.

“Avy esaya gera assan i’ara’av’ingala.”  Catching an arrow with his teeth would be less absurd than allowing the wayward emotions to steer him in a direction opposed to his goals.  His work was bigger than himself; that’s what he had to remember, and she was still just a single heartbeat in the breast of eternity.  

But he wanted to feel that beat. A wordless cry poured out from the depths of his being, the frustration and impotence releasing with a sound that was not unlike a wolf’s cry in its desolation and desperation.  And he knew.  Knew he would return to Skyhold, to them, to her, because he was a petty and selfish being, who wanted to steal a precious few more moments with a mortal shadow of his old life that had become his vhenan by doing nothing more than seeing beyond the facade and embracing him when she glimpsed the monster within.

_“Felasil.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanal'ghilan: the golden halla
> 
> En'an'sal'en: Blessings
> 
> Avy esaya gera assan i’ara’av’ingala: I would try to catch an arrow with my teeth. A term for someone who does something foolish
> 
> Felasil: Fool


	34. The heart of man's a palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A directive is given, a friend returns, a hunt commences, and a loss is felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my deepest thanks to Eisen for his beta work and general maintenance of my insanity.

“I need your assistance with something, my dear.”

That in and of itself was a shock.  Vivienne always seemed completely unflappable, never in want of more than the barest of information at most from the Inquisition, and she had never asked anything of Rowan personally.   So she was sure that the expression on her face was more than a little wide-eyed at the request.  Well, not so much a request as an evenly-toned command that was expected to be followed.  Madame de Fer was nothing if not direct.

Of course, “Vivienne.  Anything you ask, I will be happy to-”

“I have come to need an ingredient for a potion I’m working on.  It has proven...more difficult to procure than I originally believed.  My...people...have run up against some issues in obtaining it.  The civil war has claimed them, and I admit I am at a bit of a loss.”

“What exactly is this ingredient?”

“The heart of a wyvern.”

“That should be-”

“A snowy wyvern, to be more precise.” The enchanter carried on as though she had not spoken.  “It is extremely rare and extremely important to the work I’m currently doing.”

“You’re working on some alchemical projects? Have you spoken to Adan or-”

“This is far beyond his ken, I am sure, darling.  He knows about reagents and quaint little explosive concoctions, but this is something altogether different.”

“May I ask what it is?”  Rowan had occasionally thought of sitting down and having a conversation about magic with  Vivienne, but frankly the woman was so deeply entrenched in the Game that getting a simple statement out of her was cause for a Ferelden-wide celebration that would last a week at minimum.  And involve cake.

“It is a private matter for the Council of Heralds. Of the strictest confidence, I assure you.” She paused, as though weighing a matter of great import in her mind before continuing.  “It is nothing to be feared, that much I can tell you.”  She was stone, iron, untouchable as always, cold in a way that was far different than the howling winter winds that swirled around her when she cast.  Vivienne was a beautiful Orlesian statue with a exotic flair. But she was still always a statue.

Until she wasn’t.  There was just a flicker, and if Rowan hadn’t been watching, it would have gone unnoticed by the world at large, just as the First Enchanter would want it.  To admit to mortality or humanity of any sort would be to allow for a flaw in the perfect mask that she had envisioned and  chiseled and formed over years of patient, tireless work.

That split second, that instant of vulnerability was all that she needed to be convinced. Later she couldn’t even tell what it was that she saw.  It was possible that she could have imagined it, placed a depth of feeling onto Vivienne’s demeanor that was never there.   But she didn’t think so.  It was in Rowan’s nature to believe that there was at least an echo of morality in each person she came across, no matter how detached or depraved.  Though it may have been a weakness, a liability in her position as Inquisitor, it was one she refused to dismiss. To remove the possibility of hope in a single person was to deny redemption to them, something she had seen more than enough of both in her clan and then with the Inquisition.  And that would become the beginning of the end of her humanity.

“Yes, I will do what I can for you.” The Madame was not one would would take gestures of sympathy; even a touch on the arm would bring her full haughtiness to the forefront, forever burying what little bit of personhood tried to break through. “Could you-”

“I will send the location to the Commander so that he can send scouts ahead to secure the way for you.  I do appreciate your help with this, darling.” And the Inquisitor, who led an army, sealed the Breach, and fought daily to defeat the threat to all of Thedas, knew she was effectively dismissed.

 

\--------

 

Coming down the steps of the keep from the meeting with the Enchanter, she spotted her too long absent ha'hren and friend.

“Solas,” she said softly, and he looked up at her, a number of emotions flickering across his face, before he settled on a small sad smile.  “You came back.”

He nodded.  “You have done me a great service, Lethal’lan.  You helped me when you did not have to, used every effort to save my friend, despite its unusual nature.”

“It was important to you, ‘ma falon,” she said simply.  She was a tactile person, and being so restrained with Vivienne had been difficult.  She refused to do the same twice, and took his hands in hers.  It was obvious that she had caused frostbite to his fingers when she stopped his spell; the minuscule spider-webbing on the tips told her as much.  “I am sorry I caused you harm.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Indeed, you were a true friend when I needed one.  I could hardly abandon you now.”  He looked down at their intertwined hands.  “A little reminder of my own brashness is the least I deserve for forgetting myself.  There is no permanent damage, and it was entirely warranted.”  He straightened, pulled his hands away gently, not a reproach, just a settling back into their normal routine.  It was impossible to remember himself when she was so close, when her skin touched his, and her honesty and sincere desire to help, to heal shone from her eyes.   _Fenedhis_. “I should see how my rooms fared in my absence.  No doubt Dorian has rifled through my papers looking for some bit of research or other.  The man has no sense of personal property.”  The levity he tried for didn’t quite reach his eyes, but thankfully she didn’t push him any farther.   He didn’t know if he could have taken more sympathy from her.  It was like drowning in kindness, and he didn’t know if he had the strength to swim against that tide indefinitely.

“I suspect he has, though the humming of that shard on your desk is enough for most people to keep their distance.  Our Altus is nothing if not persistent, however.”  She moved aside to let him pass, raising a hand as though to attempt comfort once more, but catching herself at the last minute.  “I will come see you later?”  she asked.

“I would like that, yes.” Fool. A thousand times fool.  “Dareth shiral, Lethal’lan.”

“Dareth shiral, ‘ma falon. It’s good to have you home.”  She continued down the stairs, glancing backwards once, as though to assure herself he was not merely an apparition.

The idea of any place being home almost had him choking in incredulity.  There was no home for him, not anymore, not since...not for too long for it to matter counting.  There were only stopping points on the constant quest to right a wrong too long in the making.  There weren’t words enough to describe his disgust at the warmth the mere idea of permanence gave him, and he silently cursed himself all the way back to his tower, giving voice to the invectives when he did indeed discover that the Tevinter mage had left his papers in unforgivable disarray.  A hearty laugh from the floor above was the only response he received to his minor tirade.

 

\---------

 

It didn’t seem that she could escape the Exalted Plains, no matter how much she desired to.  The Inquisition had gone in to clear up as many of the problems surrounding the undead as they could, which with the number of corpses created by the civil war was no mean feat.  The trading with the Dalish clan had commenced immediately on her return, and there was already a steady if small influx of supplies from them for the people to buy and sell.  But then Vivienne had commissioned the wyvern heart, and she was back again the clutches of a land that welcomed her kind as much as the Lavellans had welcomed her.  It didn’t matter that she believed in the Maker and Andraste as well, she could feel the disdain for her otherness in every statue and signpost that spoke of the March that happened on the land hundreds of years before.

Fortunately the soldiers under Cullen had been able to go in quickly and clear out the grove where the beast had been spotted. It was one less trudging task to perform in a land she wanted to leave as quickly as possible.  

And then she walked into Ghilan’nain’s Grove.  Ancient statues dotted the area, beautiful ruins that spoke of once great power and achievement, as well as obeisance to the mother of halla.  Throughout the area, trees that seemed locked in a permanent frosty winter seemed to glisten in the weak sunlight, crystalline and frozen and oddly perfect in their stark majesty.

“You can feel it too, the greatness that once was?”  Solas moved silently beside her.  “The memories this place must contain...they would be no doubt magnificent in both their beauty and savagery.” At her quizzical look he continued.  “No place that was once this great could have fallen so low without an abundance of bloodshed and death on both sides of whatever battle occurred.  But those are questions to be answered at a later time.  I believe our quarry lies ahead.”  

She was grateful he had agreed to accompany her after everything he had gone through so recently.  But there was no hesitation in his acceptance; in fact it seemed only natural for him to be at her side when the ancient elven area was explored for the first time in several ages.  For all his protestations, they were descended from the same people, and shared a common history.  She knew that his arrogance covered up a loneliness that easily surpassed her own.  He would be hard pressed to ever admit as much to her, but she saw the shadows that reflected her own sense of loss from time to time.

“Grace, what do we know about this wyvern, anyway?  Are we looking for a normal-sized death machine, or is this a special form of hell the Iron Lady has set us up for?”

“Knowing our luck, it’s the size of a dragon with half the satisfaction of taking one down.” If she didn’t know better, Rowan would think Bull was pouting over the fact that she had asked him to come kill something that was giant lizard that didn’t breathe fire and pummel them with its wingspan.

“Whatever it is, we can take care of it.” She thought of that passing flash in Vivienne’s eyes.  “We have to.”

A screech from ahead of them stopped them short.  “That sounded large and carnivorous.”  Varric sighed and made minor adjustments to Bianca’s stock.  “Looks like we’re in the right place.”

Whatever his initial thought was, the Qunari stood a bit straighter and tested the balance of the great axe in his hand.  “It’s a good day to get bloody.”

“Tiny, you have a damn odd view of what constitutes a good day.”

They had worked together often enough to have established a pattern of battle, and when the great lizard appeared, pulling itself away from the whitewashed rock of the grove to make itself known, they were ready to engage.  

The two mages worked in a flurry of spells, Solas keeping barriers tightly woven around the warrior as he charged at the beast as Rowan spun circles of ice beneath its feet, keeping it off balance to give Bull the chance to swing at the wyvern’s flanks, attempting incapacitation quickly.  Varric fired volleys of bolts at its front, keeping its attention on him at a distance, hitting the sensitive nose of the creature which caused it to scream with fury and pain.  He was able to blind it in one eye, which further disoriented it.  It made the warrior’s work harder as he had to dodge a flailing tail, but in one brilliantly insane leap, he jumped onto its back and drove his axe into base of the creature’s skull, severing its spine and leaving it to its death throes as he rolled away to safety.  

When it finally stopped twitching, Bull approached it and removed his weapon, wiping the blood off as much as possible on the ground to remove its corrosive properties quickly.  He then pulled a dagger to slice it open, but Rowan stayed his hand.  “I need to be able to freeze it quickly so it will last until we return to Skyhold.”

She took her own dagger in hand and ran her fingers over the blade, coating it in a layer of ice that made it shine with a ethereally blue glow.  And then, unceremoniously, she plunged the point into the monster’s side, and sliced it open swiftly.  Blood and fluids poured out onto her hands, but she ignored it all while delving for her quarry.  She had grown up in the wild; the insides of an animal, no matter how large, didn’t phase her in the slightest.  And she knew the anatomy of beasts well enough to recognize when she found the heart.  Another set of slices had the organ sliding into her hand, and a small ball of blue ice surrounded it, immediately preserving it while it was still warm and slick with the life of the wyvern.

“Andraste’s freckled ass, Grace. You’re a little scary.”  She looked up at the other three, who stood staring at her in states varying from satisfaction to slightly disturbed approval to...something she didn’t quite know how to identify in the face of the Qunari.  Glancing back down, she saw that she was completely covered in red and worse.

She shook her head. “I just...it needed to be right. And if it was wrong, I had to be the one to blame, and me alone.” The ball of ice sat, unmelting, in her palm, the outside slightly tinged with read to give it an odd lavender glow.  “Let’s get back to camp and then to Skyhold as quickly as possible.  I think this is more urgent than Vivienne let on.”

“You got it boss.” Bull smiled broadly.  “Gotta say, you wear blood well.”

She smiled, a little hesitant. “I...thank you? I think.”

 

\--------

 

The Enchanter had obviously been watching for them from her makeshift salon in the keep. “My dear, you’ve returned, and so quickly, too.” She didn’t ask, just waited for the answer to the unspoken words.

Rowan held up the orb that she had guarded on the trip back, freezing and refreezing layers as she felt it was needed. It was still speckled red, slightly purple tinged in spots, but Vivienne didn’t hesitate as she took it in her hands.  “I hope this gives you what you need, Madame.”

“I dare say it will, and,” she glanced at the rest of the party who were still dismounting and unpacking, and gestured for the Inquisitor to follow her back towards the entrance to the main hall, “I ask that you accompany me when I have finished.  I am sure you have questions and I will see them answered for you in due time.”

Rowan meant to refuse, to allow the woman the trust, but again that...something...stopped her from dismissing the request that felt more like a boon being granted. “As you wish.  Please let me know when you would like to leave.” She glanced down at herself and sighed at her still-stained clothing.  “I’ll be in my chambers if you need anything in the interim.”

 

\---------

 

It was two more days before the other woman summoned her, and while she expected a trip to Val Royeaux, it was a complete surprise when they ended up at Vivienne’s own estate. Throughout the short trip, they had exchanged pleasantries; mostly what at first seemed idle gossip from the First Enchanter that Rowan soon realized had the potential to be damning information on various houses in Orlais.  The woman was shrewd, and knew how best to convey intelligence without seeming to do anything of the sort.  Madame de Fer was a multi-faceted individual.

She led her through a labyrinth of hallways until they came to one that was apparently in constant attendance by a guard, who merely nodded at the two as they entered.  A servant waited on the other side of the door. “Has there been any change?” she asked, matter-of-factly.

“Nothing positive, I am dismayed to say, my lady,” the elven woman replied.  “He is much the same since last you were here.”

Vivienne nodded, and gestured to the Inquisitor.   “This should not take long.”  And walked briskly to the bed upon which a figure lay.

The glance at the true face of Vivienne that had convinced Rowan to take on the quest was fully apparent at last as she looked down at the prone form.  “Bastien,” she said, but the rest of the brief exchange was too quiet for her to hear, and she refused to move closer and intrude on what seemed to be an intimate and poignant moment.  Vivienne at one point lifted a vial to his lips, expectation of...something...on her face.  But that hope quickly faded as a final audible gasp came from the man, and Rowan had met death often enough to know that it had entered the room and claimed another.

The mage’s eyes shone, despite her best efforts to slide her careful mask back into place.  “There is...nothing left here,” she said with an air of finality.  The hollow tone in her voice had Rowan bowing her own head in the memory of remembered grief.  

“I am sorry, Vivienne. If you need…”

“Yes, I appreciate everything you’ve done, my dear.”  She deliberately did not look back at the bed, at the figure that had obviously meant so much to her.  Her eyes stayed forward, on the door, then the entrance, and then the carriage that waited to take them back to Skyhold.  

Not another word was spoken between them on the return trip, and Rowan feigned sleep to give the other woman time alone with her mourning.  It was only then that she heard the slightest sounds of the other woman’s tears, and sent a silent prayer to the Maker and Creators to guide the First Enchanter’s loved one into eternity, and ease the pain that her companion had to endure.

Upon returning home, they went their separate ways, but within a matter of days, a new mage’s coat and set of clothes arrived in her room, heavily enchanted and intricately worked with embroidery and runes. They were of the deepest midnight blue, with threading of silver shot throughout, and were as soft and supple as wearing a second skin when she tried them on. There was a note attached which made her eyes fill with tears, because of what it didn’t say, and yet so beautifully conveyed.

 

_The Inquisitor must always be seen at her best.  These pieces should help you to stay at the height of fashion while also providing the necessary protection.  I took the liberty of choosing a color I felt best suited for you, my dear.  You must agree that I am well-versed in such things._

_You are of great worth, and should always appear as such to others who do not know you as we do._

_-Vivienne_

  
  
  



	35. How can I keep my soul in me, so that it doesn't touch your soul?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Exalted Plains are completed, a mind is examined, a story recounted, and the stars shine with a new and profound brightness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for [Eisen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen). It never would have been written without his suggestion, and Cole would have stayed the silent boy in the shadows of the tavern.
> 
> In addition, the beautiful artwork of my Rowan is by Eisen as well. I thought since he inspired the chapter, she should have a home here as well.

[ ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen)

Making her way across the battlements to the inn, she reflected over the past couple of weeks. She had reported back to Cullen on the multiple exploits in the Plains; there had been so very many details to go over, and the two of them had settled into a pleasant routine where instead of writing her reports, she would give him an outline while he took notes. It afforded them an opportunity to spend more time together...and Cullen was very particular about the level of detail in his papers, so she didn’t feel like a recalcitrant child when he reviewed them and raised an eyebrow, conveying his dismay at the rather brief summations. “You do know that an Inquisitor delves deeply into the heart of situations, finding truths and answers in the minutiae. ‘We killed a wyvern’ is hardly a sufficient level of information for us to glean facts from.” The humor in his eyes belied his apparent disappointment.

She smiled at him in return. “Yes, well, if I went into the detail you require, I wouldn’t have to actually do any of the things you want me to report on. And then what would you be able to reprimand me for?”

“Not doing your duty to the Inquisition, most likely,” he responded dryly, and she laughed, which brought a smile to his lips the way few things in life could. “Now, before I forget, because I admit, you are rather a distraction to my work, I believe our resident spirit has been up to a few...well, if it was Sera, I would call them pranks, but I don’t believe that’s what these are.” He handed her a parchment with ‘Incident Report’ written across the top. She scanned it and looked back up at him, puzzled.

“Turnips and spiderwebs?”

“The barrel full of daggers was the one that drew my attention, however, and gave me a hint as to who might be responsible.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “As much as Cole’s...unique history hints at violence, I do believe he detests bloodshed. I don’t mind speaking with him about this; in fact there is something...calming...about him, but he seems to respond best to you, and I don’t want him to feel as though he’s being accused of a crime.” He grimaced. “I apparently can have quite a stern demeanor without intending to. Varric calls it a work hazard.”

“Varric would be correct, though not all of us are particularly intimidated by it. Some of us find it rather charming.”

“Thank the Maker for that.” He reached out a hand to her, almost hesitant, but she took it immediately.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s in my standard litany,” she responded, voice light, eyes serious. “And while I wish I could stay here all day and simply revel in this, I should go speak to Cole, and see if I can find the answer to some of these happenings.”

“Yes, I...should try and create a coherent retelling of your Exalted Plains adventures. Excellent job on establishing the trade route with the Dalish. They may not appreciate our soldiers too close to their camp, so I’ve taken the liberty of having them establish some discrete locations where they will not be interrupting the day to day happenings of their clan, but there is an added layer of security for them. Even with the end of the civil war, unrest can and will cause more bloodshed.”

Rowan blinked. “I...I didn’t consider that possibility. I knew they wouldn’t accept outright protection, but-”

“This is why you have a Commander, and your other advisors. You’re not supposed to be an expert in every aspect of the Inquisition. We’re specialized. You are the face of the movement, and you are the deciding voice. We see the details, make sure that the gaps are filled when necessary. This way we all do our part in our fight against Corypheus.” His voice was gentle, but resolute.

“Thank you for the reminder,” she said. “Sometimes I forget that I’m doing this with invaluable companions who catch the holes in my logic and make sure that everything runs as smoothly as it does.”

“Another one of my job titles, and one I find most pleasant...letting you know you’re not alone.” He squeezed her fingers, and then let go, as she stood to solve their latest little mystery.

“As do I. I’ll see you later...I believe you owe me a chess match.”

He smirked. “I do believe you’re right...Grace.”

Her heart stuttered at the smirk and her feet at the nickname. She caught herself on the doorway and looked back. “He got to you, too, did he?”

“It’s fitting. In more ways than one.” She blushed, and turned back to the open door, trying to remember how to get her legs moving properly once more.

\---------

_...hurting...hurting. So much pain, powerless, pointless. I want to help, need to...and another, another, endless aching._

The waves rolled over one another, small currents of every woe and ache and longing that they felt, so familiar and foreign to him each time one rose up in an emotional swell to make its presence known as it crashed down around him.

_...feels it like a dagger to her heart, each time she smells the sea. She lost him to the waves, and they are now her tears...an ocean, always filling, never soothing, salt in the wound of her soul._

What had the bright light said...no, not light, there was...a name to the brightness. _Inquisitor. Lavellan. Rowan._ It was a she, a person, like he almost was, sometimes was, may never be. It was harder in a body, he wasn’t made for something as small as a mind, and it hurt, these thoughts pushing against the walls of his head, making him puzzle out what to do. The skin and bone clung to his purpose, made it harder to fulfill.

It... _she, remember, she_...told him that releasing them from pain didn’t mean death, not necessarily. Death took away hope of change. He struggled with that concept, with so many things that being human made difficult. It was simple. Pain called out to compassion. Compassion desired to end pain, to fulfill its purpose. But he wasn’t just compassion anymore. She reminded him of that. He was Cole, too. He was more than a spirit, and being more meant sometimes doing less. Not taking away the pain, but making it better, softening the edges. And when he did, he felt like less, but somehow more, a blossoming in his chest that made him feel more...human, more Cole. 

And he _wanted_...he thought it was want, this something less than compulsion that still drove him to act, to improve, to do better...he wanted to feel more human, to understand the others and increase that tentative hold on reality that he had. He didn’t want the Fade, not anymore, if he ever did want it in the first place. Before there was no such thing as want. There was the need, the purpose, and there were the moments between, which could have been instants or lifetimes. But there was never an idea of choosing to follow or not. There was never an idea of choice before, period.

“Having a choice makes us people,” it-she said. The glow was so bright that sometimes it was just an aura, not a Rowan at all, but the voice still came through, clear and true, helping him to learn, to be. 

So he chose.

He followed the beckoning call of the woman who wept for her husband, and found her in the gardens, watering the plants with her tears. The look on her face tugged at him in a strange way that he had been experiencing since slipping on humanity. Was that how compassion felt to those encased in flesh and bone? It...hurt...somehow, a dull ache in the center of this new body, pulling at him to do more than make her forget. He wanted to touch, to place a hand upon her shoulder, let her know that he heard her cries. He wanted her to _remember_ that he was there, that he...cared.

He didn’t dare. Didn’t know how, not yet, too soon. Always too soon, too close, too hard.

And then he felt the tug on his awareness, like a flash behind his eyelids, and he knew that she was looking for him.

\---------

It had taken her some time to “learn” to remember Cole. The thought of him slid over her mind like oil over water, and she was hard-pressed at first to recall his name let alone his features. That was the way he wanted it, she supposed, but she wouldn’t let him hide, wouldn’t let him be alone with his thoughts. He may have been a spirit, but he was a human, too, and humans needed at least some interaction with others to maintain a hold on reality. And as much as Solas may have wanted him to merely be a spirit with a human form, Cole had chosen humanity, and so at least a part of him desired the experience of being in the world.

She concentrated on the area she knew that he would be in at the top of the inn, in the corner, where he could see most of the people, but no one could really see him, provided they even knew to look. Rowan wondered if it helped him to hear, to pinpoint where problems lay...or if it was quieter, and he could find some solace away from the constant stream of voices that must have run through his mind. For all he was a spirit, he was a young man, too, and must have had his own wants and desires that got crowded out, drowned by the thoughts of others. She was mortal and it sometimes felt that way; she could only imagine how it was for him.

“Hello, Cole,” she said to the air, and suddenly he was there, as though he turned sideways and appeared. 

“She is sad but stronger, a face of stone, a heart of pain. She wants the pain, the memories. Clinging to them, hard, hot, heavy.” His eyes were wide and almost looked through her, as though he could see Vivienne from where he stood. “She envies your strength without the mask.”

That took her by surprise, that Madame De Fer would find anything to want of hers. “But she’s always so cool and collected. I’m-”

“Fresh and frozen but warm. Caring. Wish I could have had her heart, but then Bastien and I wouldn’t have met, so perhaps it’s alright. Has to be alright. No one knows, no one needs to know. I am the Iron Lady, of course, I must be. It’s my role. No tears, no sorrow, just stone.” His eyes focused back to her. “She likes you, but she’ll never say.”

Rowan swallowed the lump in her throat, and her voice was unsteady. “It’s alright. She doesn’t have to.” She glanced down at her new outfit, that seemed to shine even in the shadows. “I already knew.”

\----------

She spent about a half an hour sussing out what Cole had been doing. As Cullen had suspected, the odd events that had been occurring around Skyhold had been the boy’s way of helping in his own indirect way. There was no way that she would possibly admonish him for what he had done; trying to ease pain and bring hope and peace to the Inquisition wherever he could, to people that often went unnoticed, the masses of day workers and refugees who were frequently passed over in the shuffle. And frankly, if his ideas worked and they didn’t cause destruction or harm, who was she to tell him to stop?

She had hesitated to touch Cole; in a way he truly did seem more spirit than human. But as she left, she brushed his arm and thanked him. He looked down where her hand met his shirt, and the smile he gave her was small, and wondrous, like a child who had seen a puppy for the first time, or first felt snow on his face. “Your light is bright but it doesn’t burn. I like that.” And then, as though he realized he had spoken aloud, he vanished before she could respond.

“Someday, we’ll have a conversation where I’m the one to leave first.” With a sigh, because she knew there was still a long way to go before that happened, she headed down the stairs and onto the landing of the second floor.

That’s where she heard it.

“-dagger in her hand, and she just dives into the fucking wyvern, like she had done it a thousand times before.”

“You’re shitting us, Chief.” Krem always sounded incredulous whenever Bull told a story. Which was often.

“Oy, Quizzy’s tougher’n she looks. Blood and shite don’t bother her.” Oh, and Sera had joined in. Rowan wanted to groan in annoyance. By the end of the tail she was going to have worn the skin of the lizard as she wrestled a bear into submission while singing Andraste’s Mabari. And Hawke thought she had it bad with Varric.

“Blood is everywhere. She’s up to her elbows in it, it’s her own vitaar. And she reaches in and slices the heart out, holding it up like a trophy, dripping red from face to ass. Sexiest thing I’ve seen since my first dragon. Hell, hotter than that.” The lustful appreciation in his voice was as heavy on the lust as it was on the appreciation. There was a growling timbre to his voice that was impossible to misinterpret. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll have to fight the jackboot for her, you want her that bad, horny bastard. Heh. Horny. Because horns, yeah?”

“Can’t a man appreciate a woman’s butchering technique without-”

“Nope. Not with you, Chief.” That was one of the other Chargers. It sounded like he had half the tavern listening in. She wondered when she’d start _drinking_ the wyvern blood at this rate, then dancing naked coated in it.

“Did she drink any of it? Being a mage, that could be a problem. Not that I would know, of course.” _Hello, Dalish. I knew I could count on someone to ask._

“Is she alive? Then no, she didn’t. Inquisitor or not, I’m not risking bringing abominations back here to kick all of our asses.” _I knew I liked him. Despite the storytelling._

She turned to go down the last flight of stairs, but Sera’s voice interrupted. “Maybe she should coat the blood on and show her Cully Wully a thing or two. Bet that’d get him out of his Templar tights in a jiff.” Rowan missed the step and cried out as she fell down the flight of stairs, landing in a spectacular heap on the tavern floor. 

It was as though the room froze, and then as one, a dozen pairs of eyes turned to look down on her disheveled form. “Fenedhis,” she hissed, and stared up at the group of Chargers, patrons, and Sera, who was already cackling madly.

Bull had the audacity to grin. “Boss, glad you could drop in! We were just talking about you.”

“Yeah, Bully here was talking all about his huge-”

“Respect for you,” he finished, shooting the blonde elf a look that should have set her on fire. She just grinned and winked in return. “You’re a hell of a leader, and what you did with that wyvern...legendary.”

He reached out a massive hand to help her up, and she took it, shaking the hair out of her eyes and looking up at him. “Still think I’m the sexiest thing since a dragon?” she asked, a laugh in her voice.

Bull chuckled. “Hell yes. Anyone who can take on a wyvern, the Qun and fall on her ass that spectacularly is damn sexy.”

“Yeah, you can have the Commander count your bruises, kiss ‘em all better, right?” Sera almost fell off of her perch on the table from her helpless giggling. 

Rowan turned bright red. “I think that’s my cue to attempt to exit with my dignity in tact.” She moved a little stiffly toward the door, brushing off her outfit as she went, and thanking Andraste that Vivienne had added the wards to the fabric to keep it from being destroyed by her clumsiness.

“Aw, come on Boss, have a drink. Nothing washes away the embarrassment like barleywine and telling stories about Krem’s misfortunes with a ship’s captain. What was her name again? Irene, Imelda?” 

It was Krem’s turn for color to rise in his cheeks. “Thought we weren’t going to mention that, Chief. Ever.” His voice was low and warning.

“Ever’s a long time, Krem. Isabela! That was her name. Woman had a thing for hats, I think, and our Krem de la Creme here was more than happy to buy her one or two….”

Despite her best intentions and aching limbs, she found herself with a tankard of ale surrounded by Chargers, laughing uproariously as the misfortunes of Krem and the other various Chargers. Sera pitched in with a tale or two about some Orlesian nobles she had seen become steadily drunker until they ended up tearing each others’ clothes off in one of the fountains of Val Royeaux. Needless to say their tryst didn’t last long, the guards having been alerted by various scandalized and titillated nobles, but their anonymity remained intact, thanks to the masks the two refused to remove before attempting their inebriated consummation. 

\--------

The reports were endless. Whenever one sheaf of papers moved off of his desk, fifteen more seemed to take their place. His desk was quickly becoming overwhelmed and a fire hazard. With a sigh, he bent his head over his table, and rubbed his temples with his fingers. “Bloody Void.” It had been hours slouched over numerous dictations, and his mind was swimming with troop movements and battle strategy, and he was frankly having trouble remembering what his own name was, let alone what locales were being reinforced by their soldiers.

Rolling his shoulders, Cullen finally pushed his chair away from the desk, which he gave a reproachful look, and decided to stretch his legs. He had reached the door when his ingrained and overdeveloped sense of responsibility overwhelmed him, and he grabbed another pile of papers off of the surface. Even if he was still working, the walk would help clear his mind. He didn’t need another episode that would would send him, blinded from pain and trembling with anxiety to his bed, useless for a day or more. 

The attacks ebbed and flowed, some days little more than an a headache, some humiliatingly debilitating. It was emasculating for him, to be so encumbered, reduced to a child afraid of the dark, of the monsters that lurked in the shadows. A growl loosed from his throat, startling one of the guards at her post as he followed that train of thought. He found himself ruminating more and more, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy of stress and frustration that only compounded his problem. There were few things that could calm his mind, release the tension that was an almost constant companion. Thoughts of his family, distant as they were, and...her.

She filled his mind like snow filled the corners of Skyhold, reaching into the darkest recesses of hot panic and cooling it with her mere presence. A mage, a Dalish, a woman with her own struggles and trials and inner demons, brought him peace and clarity. Just the thought of her brought his overwrought brain back into focus and calm. He took a deep, bracing breath of the cold air, the wintry wind filling his lungs like a tangible bit of her, banishing the fear for another night.

He continued on, renewed purpose in his step, a destination in mind at last. The papers in his hand could wait for the evening; their words would be better served by him after a night of rest. He folded them carefully and slid them into the pouch at his hip, and made his way to the Rest. 

Even from his relative distance, he could hear the sounds of celebration coming from the inn, and smiled slightly. He rarely indulged in nights at the tavern; work always seemed to get in the way of a moment of relaxation, and he always had an idea that those who served under him had a difficult time unwinding when their Commander was present, even if he was decidedly not on duty. He understood why fraternization between officers and enlisted was frowned upon if not outright restricted; no one could take advantage of time off if a superior officer was hovering nearby, each movement and choice potentially studied, noted, and used to find fault in later actions or inactions. 

But this night...this night he needed to take a moment to be around others, to remember that he was not alone, just as he reminded Rowan that she was not so often. And if he was particularly lucky, she might even be there; perhaps he could even steal a moment or two more of her time. He was selfish that way, could never seem to get enough of her, longed for the next moment he would see her, speak to her, touch her, no matter how briefly.

He considered stopping by to see how Cole was doing, but thought better of it. The boy got...overwhelmed...at times by his mental state, and he didn’t want to cause him undue grief. And having him recite Cullen’s own thoughts back at him could be both unnerving and unhelpful, though he was loathe to tell the young man that.

Fortunately, when he entered the front door of the Rest, very few people took notice, so engrossed were they by the frankly scandalous story that Sera was retelling about a pair of indiscreet Orlesian nobles. Maryden strummed her lute rather dejectedly on the left side of the tavern, as the majority of patrons had crowded around the elf, who was currently standing on a barrel, acting out some increasingly suggestive poses. He moved up to the bar, where the only person who seemed unaffected by the performance was the bartender, Cabot. “Commander. What can I get you?” he asked in the same dry tone he spoke to everyone with.

“Ale, unless you’ve suddenly procured something new and exciting, ser.” Cullen tried a smile on the dwarf.

“Yeah, I’ve heard about the the smirk. They’re right about it, but, it’s still just ale.” He pulled a pint while speaking, and slid it across the counter.

Cullen stifled a groan of embarrassment. It was more than a little disconcerting to find that he was a topic of conversation frequently enough that even the bartender at the Herald’s Rest could make mention of it. He had told Rowan before that he preferred his private life to remain priv-

A laugh. He knew it like he knew his own voice, even for as rarely as he had heard it. It was a little loud, a little...unsteady, but it was hers, and it thrilled through him like a jolt of electricity. He found himself moving towards the far side of the room, drawn to the sound of her, all the other voices simply falling away to the background. He saw her sitting by Bull, cheeks ruddy with drink and eyes bright with humor. Even with the haze of alcohol, she kept her eyes on the room, making contact with as many of those as she could, smiling, making them aware that she saw them, cared that they were there, that they existed. She was glorious, and when her gaze slid up to him, his heart stopped.

Sapphires sparkled, filling him, making his breath catch. It was like that every time, and for all of the anxiety, the trepidation, the self-consciousness that plagued him, all he needed was a second of her, and it all fell away, meant nothing. He knew then, was entirely sure that he could not spend his life without her in it, wouldn’t want to remember the moments before the color and life and yes, unique clumsiness that encapsulated her very being brought her into his world and made it that much brighter. Perhaps he was a fool, or perhaps his mind had just been clouded for so long by the lyrium that she shone that much more brightly for its absence. But it didn’t matter. She owned his heart, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

Sera wound down her story, finishing with a flourish that had her jumping off of the barrel and doing a somersault in midair. What exactly that had to do with an Orlesian indiscretion was beyond him, but it didn’t matter. The applause was thunderous, and she took her bows and was handed tankards which she started downing with ease. Rowan leaned over and said something to Bull, who looked up, nodded to Cullen with a rather satisfied grin on his face, and nodded. She stood, more than slightly unsteady on her feet, and he unconsciously moved to catch her if, and when, she fell.

The crowd instinctively parted as they moved towards one another, and she stumbled slightly into him, as he put a hand on her elbow. “May I escort you to your room, Inquisitor?” he said with a slight smile, voice trembling very slightly. She overwhelmed him.

The grin she returned was slightly tilted from inebriation, but it was genuinely cheerful. “I would lo-like that very much, Commander. I fear it may also be necessary. I’m not the...steadiest...on my feet as it is. And I think...I’ve had a bit much to drink.” 

“Perhaps just a bit.” His voice soft. “And it’s my duty to keep you safe, even from yourself, Herald.”

They made their way out of the inn, and the night was bright, stars filling the sky. She looked up, still smiling, and pulled on his arm slightly. “They’re singing tonight. They always seem to with you nearby, ara’len,” she said, the endearment slipping from her lips without hesitation, without pause, and it was only after a moment that she realized she had. He didn’t know what it meant, didn’t stutter in his steps at the word, so she let it slip by unnoticed, though she meant it, wanted to repeat it endlessly, loud and soft and for all of Thedas to hear. But even in her drunken state, she knew that there were times to have certain conversations, and that one needed to be had sober. It was enough for the moment that she meant it.

He did pause after, however, in the middle of the courtyard, and put a hand to her cheek, golden eyes intense. “I would make them sing for you forever, if I could.” Softly he kissed her, lips brushing gently against her own. He tasted of Cabot’s ale, heady and strong, and she made a sound of contentment deep in her throat. After far too brief a moment, they pulled away, and the increased unsteadiness in her limbs had nothing to do with the drink.

They didn’t say anything more on the way back to her rooms, but their hands were entwined, each craving the other’s touch. It was too short a walk up the stairs, for all her very careful steps and his steady guidance to her door. They stood for a moment, not speaking, words failing them both. “I-” she started, then stopped. “Cullen….”

He brought her hand to his mouth, caressing her knuckles, stubble brushing against the sensitive skin, and she shivered. “Goodnight, Rowan.” He smiled over her fingers. “Please let me know if you ever need my assistance again.”

The man tied her tongue at times, made her feel a completely mute fool. “Yes. I...shall. Goodnight Commander.” Reluctantly she reclaimed her hand, and turned, barely keeping from smacking into the door before opening it. She heard his soft chuckle, and her cheeks flamed. Clumsiness brought sobriety back with alarming speed, and with it the accompanying self-consciousness that came with a witness to her lack of coordination. Yet she knew he waited until she was safely inside before leaving, his role as her Commander never forgotten, no matter how personal their relationship became.

In a combination of exhaustion and embarrassment, she fell across her bed, thinking briefly of the warmth that spread through her at the thought of him, even moments after he departed. Vaguely she dreaded the headache that would be inevitable the next morning, but she wouldn’t trade the evening’s camaraderie, and her stolen minutes with her Commander, for anything short of Corypheus’ defeat. She soon gave herself up to the oblivion of a dreamless sleep, courtesy of the amulet she wore around her neck.

For Cullen’s part, he knew two things. One, he was, for the first time in their existence, glad that the threatening attacks from the lyrium withdrawal and the stress drove him from his office. And two, he would find out what ara’len meant if he had to travel to a Dalish encampment to get the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ara'len...nope, not telling. If you have to know, go look it up. ;-)


	36. The magic art at the crossroads of your senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We begin our journey towards entering Emprise du Lion. The Champion and the Inquisitor run a few tests.

She’d had her fun, had taken a moment to simply enjoy the fact that she was part of, the leader of, a group of misfits housed in a castle high in the Frostback Mountains.  Skyhold spoke to her.  Morrigan had told her some vague stories about its existence, its history, but none of that really mattered, as much as she enjoyed lore.  She knew that she _belonged_ there, unlike any other place she had been in the world.  Rowan recognized the stones, the earth, the configuration of each room in a way that simply made sense.  It was laid out before her, this fortress that housed her family, kept them warm and safe from Corypheus and his threats.  And each time she left, it welcomed her home, pulling her back into its embrace like she imagined a mother would hold her child.  Like she remembered her Bae would hold her when she was scared, or hurt, or alone...or simply needed the touch of another to remind her that the world was not all some great unknown to be feared.  

But she knew she had to leave it again, exit through its gate and across the bridge back into a world that was filled with danger and turmoil, where death waited around the corner for her.  She sighed a little as she stared out over the battlements at the mountains that surrounded them, a natural fortification that was more effective than anything even the dwarves at the height of their achievements could have dreamt up.

“Lavellan, you look like someone kicked your Mabari.”  Hawke strode up to her, a half smile on her face, always seemingly carefree and sarcastic, but there was worry that lingered behind her eyes, and the weight of too many losses rode heavy on her shoulders, for all that she tried to stand upright and true.  Rowan knew better, because she saw the same things when she looked in the mirror in the morning.

“Realizing that I have to leave here again.  That I have to leave _home_.” She emphasized the last word, because it was such an unusual idea for her, leaving someplace and actually missing the walls and the doors, the sights and the smells...and the people. Her life among the Dalish had been one of constant movement.  There had never been a chance to grow close to the land, to become comfortable with her surroundings. An aravel was a means of transportation, not a home, and a bedroll was not a place you could call your own. Skyhold, and the Inquisition, had changed her perception and her desires utterly. “And where I have to go….” She shuddered.  “The reports out of the Emprise du Lion aren’t pretty.”

“So I’ve heard. Or, would have heard, had a certain dwarf been getting his own reports from his own people from various parts of Thedas. Which of course, he’s not.” The smile was wry now...Hawke’s face was usually contorted into some form of visual sarcasm, whether it was a raised eyebrow, a curled lip, or just a slight cock of her head to the side.  It was as though she wanted to make sure that you knew everything you were saying to her had to be filtered for bullshit before she’d respond, and you’d likely get the same amount, if not more, returned in kind as her reply.

Rowan couldn’t help but laugh.  “No, I’m sure that Varric hasn’t used any of his resources throughout this campaign at all.  I trust you both-”

“More fool you.”

“And if I didn’t,” she continued, “I’d just let Sister Nightingale know. I’m sure she has all sorts of lovely little forms of torture planned for people who get in her way and counteract her spy ring.”

That got Hawke to widen her eyes a little in genuine surprise.  “That woman..she’s scary.  Pretty, charismatic, and downright spooky.  I met the former Arishok. He was intimidating.  She would make him piss his balloony pants.”

“You _killed_ the former Arishok, if memory serves me.”

“I did.” She rubbed a spot on her abdomen. “I have the pretty puckery marks to prove it, too. Not one of my finest moments, but I did what had to be done.” The Champion sobered for a moment.  “And that’s what you’ll do, too.  What has to be done to keep these people safe. As many of them as you can.  And you can’t save all of them...no matter how hard you try.” She was far away then, no longer standing by Rowan’s side in Skyhold.  She was on the run during the Blight. She was watching her sister torn apart at the hands of an ogre.  She was holding her mother as she breathed her last.  She was looking in Anders’ eyes as-

A hand on hers, cool and long and delicate.  Eyes as old as the sky itself meeting hers, deep blue and full of understanding, one unintentional leader to another. “I know.  We do the best we can.  And we win when we can, where we can.”

“And we lose.  Too damn often we lose.”  The fingers over hers squeezed, before they dropped away, and Hawke looked up in the distance.  “Maker, I sound like a melancholy old fool.”

“No, just a woman who’s seen too much, too often, for too long.”  Rowan smiled at her.  “You’ve held it together this long.”

“That’s debateable.  Ask the dwarf. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m one fireball away from self-immolation.”

It was her turn to give a smirk. “What does he know? He’s a dwarf. He couldn’t touch magic if you put it in his hand.”  

Hawke laughed, and clapped the elf on the back. “You’re quick, Lavellan.  And I’ll tell you, he may not be able to touch magic, but I’ve made sure it’s touched him...or at least his over-exposed chest hair, more than once.  Damn author doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut about things.”  She sparked up a flame in her hand, letting the little curl of fire bounce on her palm.  “I love the way he gets nervous when I do this.”  She passed it from hand to hand as though it was a small ball.  

“I can imagine,” she said, and flicked out her hand, wrapping the fire with a spiral of ice and squeezing it out of existence.  The other woman looked up, appreciation in her eyes.

“Nice trick.”

“Try something a little bigger.”

 

\---------

 

Cullen and Varric had been discussing, well, nothing of import, really.  The dwarf liked to check on the Commander, who had always seemed both distant and dour in Kirkwall, and then wounded as they traveled back to Ferelden.  Over the course of time, they had gone from wary acquaintances to something that neither one would admit was friendship, but looked identical to anyone on the outside looking in.

“So of course she has to try and hop from one stone to the next.”

“She has many fine qualities. Balance is not one of them.”

“That’s for damn sure. I’m fairly certain Grace ended up with her entire body black and blue by the time she got across. But, to give her credit, she did, and we brought home some nice little trinkets to share as a result.  She doesn’t give up.”

 

“That’s something that she shares with your Champion, I would say.  Steadfast refusal to accept defeat.  At least when there’s something at stake that can benefit someone else.”

Varric snorted. “Don’t bother telling her that.  I’ve tried for years. She just scowls and burns off more hair.”

“Fortunately, the Inquisitor has not seen fit to do anything of the sort to me.  She tends to-”  The door to his office burst open, and one of the couriers...Jim, if he remembered correctly, pulled up short.

“Ser, there’s...an incident occurring on the battlements.”

Cullen pushed away from his desk. “What is it?”

“It’s...Maker, ser, it’s best if you see for yourself.”

He turned and followed the page out and across the walkway, hand ready on his sword.  Behind him, he heard Varric load Bianca and move to cover his left side.  It became clear very quickly what was causing the commotion that had brought a large contingent of the Inquisition to stop and stare.  

A massive ball of flame came into view, a curling sphere of fire that swirled with infinite shades of red and orange, white skirting the outside and blue just hinting from somewhere near the center. And as it seemed ready to fall back to earth, suspended at its zenith, at its full potential for spectacular damage, a small flurry of glistening white blossomed from the center, tracing the contours of the ball like a skein of yarn unwinding, until the frost had engulfed the fire, turning it into a crystalline orb of frozen flame. With a pop, it shattered, and ice and water rained down onto the flagstones.  The crowd standing at the base of the hold applauded, entranced by the show.

“Nice control, Lavellan! You may not be able to keep from tripping over your own feet, but you can spin a damn fine spell.”

“Yes, well, I don’t need to walk to cast. And your fires are beautiful. I can’t believe I can channel around it like that.  It’s like following a brush stroke in a painting.”

“Well, our types of mages are usually too damn busy turning up their noses at each other to try and work together.  Throw one of yours up, and let’s see what we can do-oh, look, we have company. Hello Curly, Author.  Are we playing with our spells too loudly?”

“I believe there was some concern that a battle was being waged along the walkways.” He raised an eyebrow.  “I assume that’s not the case?”

“I dunno, Grace. Are you feeling any homicidal urges at the moment?”

She appeared to think for a minute, a small smile on her face that made Cullen forget for a moment that he was there in at least a somewhat official capacity.  “No...no, I don’t have any murderous tendencies.”

“I never should have introduced them to one another,” Varric said with a groan. “You two are going to bring this place down around our ears, and you’re going to grin as you do it.”

“You’re so dramatic, Dwarf,” she retorted. “No one down there seems to be worried we’re going to blow everything up.”

“No one down there knows you the way I do.”

“Do I need to give you a scorching reminder of my level of control?”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered, and Rowan met his eyes, smiling wryly and shaking her head.  The pair from Kirkwall continued to aim barbs at one another as the other two slipped away, heading back towards his office. The crowd, realizing that the show was done for the day, slowly dispersed.

The Inquisitor and Commander walked side by side, but he pulled her to a stop.  “Your magic…”

She looked slightly pained, but the animation in her voice told him of her excitement.  “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, but our magics are more complementary than I ever realized they could be.  If we could spend more time, work in tandem long enough-”

He put a hand on her shoulder, and she met his eyes. “I was going to tell you that it’s beautiful.” He slid his hand to cup her cheek.  “Almost as beautiful as you.” His thumb  brushed across her cheek as he leaned in to kiss her.  She tasted like winter, cold and crisp and fresh.  The impression was stronger when she was fresh from casting, and he could almost smell the frosted pine on her skin as he inhaled her.

She made a small noise and opened her mouth to give him access, and their tongues slid across one another, exploring, dueling, discovering.  She was intoxicating, heady, irresistible, and he was lost in her.  His other arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her close, as she reached up to run her fingers through his hair, loosening the carefully controlled waves into their naturally curly state.  He never wanted to let her go, wanted her filling his senses every day of his life, from morning to night, as she already lingered in his dreams, consumed his thoughts.

“You two have a penchant for balconies, don’t you?”

“You know, we could have left them alone.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Good point.”

“I think they’re ignoring us.”

“I would.”

“Yeah, you’d have to find someone willing to participate in these public displays of affection, first.”

“Bianca’s always up for a show.”

Hawke snorted. “Yes, you and your crossbow, snuggled up on the battlements.  Let’s go, old man. You owe me a drink.”

“For what?”

“For the privilege of my company. Go forth, and buy me ale.”  Their footsteps moved off, but the embracing couple didn’t notice, they were so lost in the sensation of one another.  It was only when the shadows began to lengthen that they found the strength to break away, put any distance between them.  Without a word, she put her hand in his, and they finally finished their walk back to his office, where they parted, reluctantly, the work of the Inquisition beckoning them both away despite their desires.  The war room, and Emprise, awaited their presence sooner than either would like to admit.

 

 


	37. The lips that you have kissed turn to frost and fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A minor slip of the tongue leads to some unexpected results; alcohol is a unique instigator of osculation.

She had her feet up on the chair, a habit she had gotten into in Kirkwall at the Hanged Man, because the feel of small furry or many-legged creatures crawling over her shoes was not an experience she relished. Especially the damn spiders. The Seeker, who had finally come under the spell of “The Chest” as she liked to call him when she was especially drunk, had decided to join in their debauchery for the evening. Or, at least sit on the sidelines and watch the show. And she had the source of so much of Hawke’s glee and Varric’s consternation in her hands.

“Tell me, Varric. How do you write...this?” Cassandra waved vaguely at the book. “You have a way with words I simply do not understand. I struggle with the simplest phrases.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, Seeker. I put quill to parchment and the words tumble forth.” He leaned back in his chair, enjoying the praise, even though it was for a work he considered pure drivel. “Sometimes I wish they’d flow backwards. Like in the case of that paperweight.”

“What? No!” She put her hand over the book protectively. “This...is art!”

He gestured at it. “This...is a piece that barely covered its costs. Not to mention the mental anguish of knowing I wrote it.”

“Tethras, you’re just being modest.” Hawke was a few ales in, but by no means tipsy, though her numb teeth would argue that point. “You have literature there!”

"You have smut there," he replied drily. 

"And who is to say that passion is not literature?" Cassandra was clearly in her element, because once it was acknowledged that she was a fan of Varric's more...titillating works, she took to defending her enjoyment of them as fiercely as any mother bear guarding her cub. "One does not preclude the other. This work is brilliant! The richness of the characters, the depth of feeling...it is no mere scandal sheet or bawdy broadside." 

Varric blinked. "Seeker, I knew you were a formidable opponent. I'm not entirely sure it's better to have you on my side. You might kill me in defense of...myself."

"Only if you refuse to satisfactorily conclude this story." She glared at him over the book which was tightly clutched to her bosom. 

"He will, don't worry, Cassandra." Hawke tossed back her drink and signaled for another. It was going to be a night where more alcohol meant more merriment. Her spell-slinging fun with Lavellan had been interrupted by Curly’s interference...and then by the Inquisitor's preoccupation with his scar. So, drinks and the mortification of her best friend was the chosen substitute. "His pride at having a fan of your caliber will keep him writing." Another drink, another healthy swallow. Her teeth were definitely a little numb, but she didn't give a damn.

"You have no idea how hard it is to write that garbage without getting competitive. Really, there are only so many ways you can say 'kiss,' or 'touch,' or, you get the idea, before I want to put Bianca to my temple and pull the trigger." He missed his slip, and Hawke pounced on it.

"Competitive, you say?" She swung her legs off the chair, leaned closer to her favorite dwarf, who was a little blurry around the edges. "How do you become competitive about kissing, Varric?"

"Comp-Maker, blast it, the only times I misspeak are around this one, and she makes me pay for it every time. Repetitive, Hawke."

"But competitive is much more entertaining. And potentially embarrassing for you." She stood, only slightly unsteady. "So let's have some competitive kissing, shall we?"

"Is she...quite well?" Cassandra asked, looking askance at the Champion.

"Yes, unfortunately. She just gets this way when she's had too much drink or too little sleep. It's worse when they’re in a combination. But thank whatever deity you prefer that Rivaini isn't here. Somehow blood would get drawn in the course of this exercise in insanity."

"Hey, Tethras, how much do you want to bet I can make the Qunari blush?" 

"Do Qunari even blush?"

"Doesn't matter, I can make it happen."

"Hey, leave me out of your bets. Someone usually catches on fire, and I don't wear enough clothing for it to be me. I'll get kicked out of the Rest. For good this time." The fearless leader of Bull’s Chargers actually backed up slightly, trying to put furniture between himself and the woman who had a wicked grin on her face.

"Oh no, I don’t believe I will. You've been walking around, calling me Bas...Bas..."

"Meraad," he supplied.

"Yes, with a shit-eating grin on your face since Halamshiral. I'm fairly certain you're getting a good laugh at my expense. So, I think turnabout is fair play." She stalked towards him, determination and inebriation in each step. "From the looks on the faces of the barmaids in this place, you seem to have the market cornered on amorous conquests. That means you'll be able to tell me where I stack up."

He narrowed his eye at her. "This is a trick of some sort. I know I'm going to regret agreeing to this. I already am."

"But you can’t turn down a challenge."

"I can't turn down the opportunity to say I locked lips with Bas Meraad."

"What in the Void does that mean?"

He grinned. "You come out on top, and I'll tell you."

"You're a son of a bitch."

"Wouldn’t know, but it's likely." With a sigh that let her, and the entire bar, which was completely silent, the crowd unilaterally fascinated by the goings on, know that he considered this a great burden, he bent over enough for Hawke to lean in and brush her lips against his. He leaned back. "That's all you've-"

She pounced, his guard let down by her demure opening salvo. Teeth nibbled the sensitive skin of his mouth, which she then soothed with short strokes of her tongue over the gentle bites. It was awkward, she could admit; his head was so much larger than her own that doing anything akin to cradling his face was ludicrous. But she persevered. 

Finally, she broke away, a bit slobbery, if she was being honest. "That was...something," he said, voice impassive. "Hate to tell you, Champion, but I've had better. I've had better today, frankly." He slapped her on the back. "Nice try, though."

Her smile was pure wickedness. "That's alright, Iron Bull. I'll get the meaning out of Tethras eventually." She reached up and embraced the Qunari around his massive shoulders. "But the real bet was to make you blush," she said quietly, and whispered something in his ear. His eye widened, and sure enough, a mottled red blotched over his skin, completely unbecoming against the grey. 

"Well played, Bas Meraad," he said, actually sincere as he pulled back to look at the woman who had bested him. "I owe you a drink for that one. Or two."

"The pleasure's all mine." She squeezed his shoulder affectionately. "You're alright, Bull." Then she spun on her heel and sat back down at the table. "Pay up, Author."

"You know we didn't actually bet anything."

"You're right. You owe me a boon, then. Finish Swords and Shields. If I can kiss a Qunari after almost dying at the hands of their less than illustrious leader, you can write a few chapters for your adoring fans." She grinned and looked over at their other companion. "What do you think, Cassandra?"

The Seeker seemed to snap out of the trance she was in, and gave the other woman a look close to awe. "What did you say to him?"

"Who-oh, Tiny? That's between him, me, and a little something I learned from a pirate friend of mine."

"I knew she'd be involved somehow. If it's sex or scandal, you can count on Isabela." Varric gave an exaggerated sigh, but secretly he was laughing. It had been too long since Hawke had simply been...care free. It was good to see, like a wound healing after too long. "Fine, you get your trash. But don't blame me if the critics come with the tar and feathers."

Hawke slid a full tankard over to Cassandra. "To co-conspirators." She touched the rim of her drink to the other. "And Seeker? You owe me ten."

The woman frowned. "I didn't think you'd be able to get Maryden to stop singing." She pulled out a pouch and slid it across the table. "Fairly won."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small interlude of insanity on the way to Emprise.


	38. My lips and music wed, murmuring a wizard song for thee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finalize our plans with heated words, and send a few special agents into the Emprise.

Walking into the war room was stepping into another battlefield, especially when it came to broaching the subject of her leading parties into more and more dangerous territories. When it had been necessary, when she had still needed to prove that she was an asset and not a danger to the Inquisition, there had been no resistance. But as the fights became more pitched and the opponents fiercer, there was far more reluctance to agree to her plans. Her decisions about Emprise were no different. In fact, they were met head on by her Commander, who had no qualms about expressing his displeasure at the idea.

"Why in blazes would you go out there with a minimal detachment? We know the place is crawling with red Templars!"

"We can slip in relatively undetected, and try and take out the main defenses with minimal casualties!"

"The key word here is _try_. This is a suicide mission!"

"This is a mission, just like any other!"

The two glared at each other across the table. Bits of Ferelden were falling away from their assigned areas, and Orlais was in a shambles. The Spymaster and Ambassador, who most definitely had their own opinions on the matter, nevertheless stood off to the side, wisely choosing not to come between the engaged forces. 

Rowan bowed her head, hands gripping the wood of the table. She was trying to stay in control, but he was making it damned near impossible. "I have to go _because_ I'm the Inquisitor. Which one of your soldiers can close the rifts? It's been fairly clearly spelled out that _I have to do this_. I cannot stay hidden here, afraid that I might stub a toe while saving people. What kind of leader would I be then?"

"A living one." The Commander's stance was similar to her own when she chanced to look up. Finally, with a sigh that sounded as though it had been pulled from the center of the earth, he conceded, the truth of her statement overtaking his valid concerns that were unfortunately irrelevant in the light of the enemy they faced. "You are correct, as much as it vexes me to admit, that you are needed in the field. And you're as stubborn as any Ferelden."

"You would know."

He raised his eyebrow. "That is true. But," he continued, and she knew that he would add conditions, "we need a heavy camp presence as you move throughout. And if we can establish a permanent hold, that would be as close to ideal as I could hope for in these circumstances.”

“Yes, I agree, of course.” She stifled her own sigh. This was the wiser course of action, the sensible one that tempered her highly dangerous plan, and made it something palatable for all of them. The fact that neither of them was happy was likely a sign that it was the correct choice. “My goals are twofold in the Emprise. We need to thwart the movement of red lyrium out of the region, choke off Corypheus’ supplies for his Templars, force them to find alternatives. Hopefully that will make them reckless as well as weaken them.

“The second is to assure that we save as many people as possible. From the reports, citizens are suffering from a lack of supplies, basic necessities. We had this same issue in the Hinterlands, and we found a solution. This situation is much more dire, because the winter has dug its heels in, and none of the usual sailing vessels can make it through. This is our chance to prove that we are more than an army, more than a fighting force, a Left and Right Hand. We are not the ruthless Inquisition of old, charging through Thedas with fire and sword. We have an opportunity to improve the lives many, and we have to seize it, because no one else will.”

She looked at all of them. “I also don’t want to expose a large number of our troops to red lyrium unnecessarily. We don’t need more infected soldiers running around and potentially turning on us, making the problem worse. And,” she continued, taking a deep breath, the truth of her mortality spilling forth, “If I fall, they need to be able to rally behind my successor, whoever that might be, and you, and defeat Corypheus once and for all.” They all looked disturbed at the thought that this would be a possibility. But they were also all practical and seasoned. She wasn’t, but she had grown up knowing life was hard, and could be painful and short.

“In coldly practical terms, yes, we could eventually rally behind another with the title of Inquisitor. It would be a set of challenges that I would be loathe to face, as we all would. It could be done, if necessary,” Josephine said carefully. “But forgive me if I’d much rather have our current leader well and safe.” The ambassador gave her a small smile that Rowan returned.

There was a wry tone to her voice. “I have no intention of dying, of falling on some Templar’s sword and making it easy for the Elder One. I simply want to be prepared for as many possibilities as I can. I want all of you to have a chance to survive if I don’t.”

Leliana responded quietly, matter-of-factly as was often her way. “A wise strategy. Not a pleasant view, but a necessary and practical one.”

Rowan felt her cheeks flush a bit. A compliment from the Nightingale was as rare as a rose in winter, and as precious to receive. “Thank you, Leliana. That means...a great deal.” She gathered herself, taking a deep breath, and then, “Shall we finalize our strategy for entering the Emprise?”

The four of them hashed out the problems at hand, studying maps and determining possible lines of communication to get more information instead of heading into the region blind. There were still raised voices, but the fighting had reduced to spirited debate instead of angry shouting. Leliana suggested sending some of her more seasoned agents into the area, to scout the situation and see if they could perhaps create choke points that would make putting a stop to the supply lines easier, if they were unable to do so on their own. Rowan wanted to balk at putting another group in that much danger, but the spymaster was adamant. “They are professionals, they know the risks, and they are trained for situations such as these. Let them do their job and fulfill their purpose, Inquisitor. This is not just our war; it’s theirs, too.”

\----------

"Inquisitor, a moment, please.”

"Yes, Commander?" She was still upset with him, childishly so, she admitted to herself, because he hadn’t fawned over her plan as a stroke of genius. He had poked logical holes in her plot, one that she still stood by, however tempered by practicality it had become.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his unconscious habit when he was nervous or frustrated. "Are we going to have a problem continuing to work together?"

Her eyes widened, and she was shocked enough to drive away the last vestiges of her anger. She took a step back so that she could look up at him more fully. "What? No, of course not! Why would you think so?"

He looked every inch the man in charge of the forces of the Inquisition, solid and serious, voice even as he spoke. "Because I want you to understand, completely and fully, that I will not blindly follow your plans without question. No matter how much I...care...for you, I will not unnecessarily risk you or this Inquisition."

"If you did, you'd no longer be Commander," she said firmly, "and you would not be the man I...care for. And your recommendations were correct, of course." It irked her to say so, even as she knew that she was a fledgling compared to them.

He sighed. “Do you like fighting with me, then? That’s the only other explanation I can come up with.”

“I don’t….” Her first instinct was to deny that vehemently. But she took a moment to think about it. “Maybe I do,” she said, voice small. “I think it’s more that I respect that you challenge me, even as it drives me insane and makes me want to throttle you.”

He shook his head, a small smile finding its way onto his features, likely despite his efforts to appear unmoved. “You are uniquely you, Inquisitor. And I can definitely sympathize with wanting to throttle someone. But I will not compromise your safety for anything. And not for personal reasons. Not _just_ for personal reasons,” he corrected. “Despite your noble protestations, you do need to be kept alive. And I'm still not comfortable that your plan for Emprise will do that."

She made an exasperated sound through clenched teeth. "What would you have me do? Would you like to come with me, be my personal bodyguard? I don't have a better solution than that."

He looked pained, and she instantly regretted her words. "Would that I could. But I need to be here to train and handle the incoming recruits. And my reaction to the lack of lyrium in my system is unpredictable at best. With the addition of the red variant as a factor, I don’t care to think of the possible outcomes. In time I _do_ plan to join you on the field, but I'm more of a liability now than an asset."

Unconsciously, she reached out a hand to him, curled fingers around his arm. "You are never a liability, never a threat to anything except my stoic elven nature that I'm so very good at affecting."

"Yes, you rival a boulder for stoicism," he said dryly. "I know my limitations right now, and have accepted them. But if you're set on your course, I'd like some input into who you take with you." His golden eyes reflected his concern. "You are obviously free to make your choices, but-"

"You'd like me to take Cassandra for her sword arm and her Seeker abilities, Dorian to bring his Mortalitasi training and hopefully have an advantage over the Templars by using their own against them, and Varric because he’s the one most familiar with red lyrium. And since Hawke isn’t coming it will keep them out of trouble together." She recited this with a straight face, but her eyes sparkled with mischief.

He couldn't help but laugh, and the leftover tension dissipated between them. "An astute foreknowledge of my requests.”

She made a slight bow. “I do attempt to have some preparation before coming to the war room, Commander.” 

Cullen looked thoughtful for a moment. “You are wise my-Inquisitor. This plan is solidly prepared. I would also prefer that you take The Iron Bull and his Chargers, but I know that you’re used to taking only a small party with you at any given time. It’s something I will never quite understand, but it has been effective to date.” 

“A compliment on my strategy? I’m stunned, Commander,” she said with a chuckle. His cheeks darkened slightly at her admonition. “I need to head back to my room, and make sure that I have proper spells prepared. There are too many unknown factors coming, and I want to have the greatest chance of being successful in the field.” 

He nodded, his time in the Circle making him aware of the work that lay ahead of her. “Would you care for an escort again?” She heard the humor in his voice and smiled weakly, shaking her head.

“Normally I would say yes without hesitation, but I’m afraid my mind is already half in my spellbooks, mapping out what my best choices are, and how most successfully to-” He snaked out a hand and grabbed her fingers as he had the night before, brushing his lips over them again. She could feel the scar this time; the odd smoothness of that slight indentation combined with the rasping bit of friction of a day’s growth of beard as it traced the skin over knuckles made her shiver despite herself, goosebumps rising on her arms. 

“Say no more. I will make sure you are undisturbed, Inquisitor.”

“You are truly a man sent by the Maker,” she said softly as he dropped her hand. It took her a great deal of effort to turn away from him.

“And Inquisitor?”

She cocked her head slightly back at him. “Yes Commander?”

“Try not to invoke Varric’s nickname for you on your way up the stairs.”

She tripped over the next stone in the walkway, one she had stepped on a hundred times or more, and stumbled slightly. His soft laugh followed her as she fled with as much dignity as she could muster and as much speed as she dared back to her chambers, deliberately holding the handrail for each step as she made her way to her room, determined not to fall and make more of a fool of herself, even though no one would know. Once inside, she took a deep breath and pulled her research around her, sitting on the rug in front of her fireplace, studying the best ways to keep her people alive and well as they stepped into the unknown. She placed everything else away from her, even the thoughts of the golden-eyed man who held her heart. Nothing, no affection, no attachments, were more important than ensuring that the people of Emprise and her people survived what came next. The sky was lightening once more before she was satisfied with the headway she had made and lay down in front of the hearth, too exhausted to do more than pull a throw over herself before succumbing to sleep.

 

\---------

The Templars made noise, and a lot of it, but each sound was like listening to the breaking of glass. It frayed Jardic's nerves more each time one of them spoke, or attempted to. At first it was just aggravating, and frightening. But then the other prisoners started being taken by those disfigured monstrosities, and the noise became the death knell for some hapless citizen of Sahrnia each time it came close.

There were only a handful of them left; his time was coming, and while he had always been apathetic about the Maker and Andraste at best, he found himself dredging up half-remembered verses of the Chant that hadn’t passed his lips since childhood, and then only reluctantly. Now, they came easily, words begging for forgiveness, salvation, mercy.

It was dusk, and they hadn’t come in a day or more; food was haphazard, forgotten as often as not, but fear drove away any hunger, and impending doom robbed him of sleep. Then...noise, and he knew his fate was at hand. The others hadn’t been in the cage as long, hadn’t had time to do more than get past the shock of being held for some unknown and evil purpose. But he knew. He was going to be food for the beasts, a dinner for the people who had once sworn to protect Thedas from harm, who were now the cause of the very atrocities they had fought against not long ago.

But...no. The noise was different. Perhaps a witless animal had found its way into the quarry. It would soon be killed by the crimson rock that jutted out of the stones around them, engulfed by the hungry humming crystals like a fly by a pitcher plant, lured in by its sweet sound, and dead before it knew it was trapped.

Then he heard the voice. A real voice, not coated by the red death, and he wondered if liberation was at last at hand.

"-thank you not to look at me in that tone of voice, Hiss." A man. Not a Templar, and Orlesian. The relief at hearing something other than that crackling death made him miss much of what was being said, though the growl from the man's companion broke through the haze.

At first he thought it was another Templar, it was so big. But, no. A second look showed it was...a Qunari? Maybe the humming had finally caused him to lose his mind. 

"I'm telling you, the Qun would benefit from a good performance from ZITHER! Might get you people to lighten up a bit-ow, damn you, what was that for? Could have broken my arm, then where would we be?” A dwarven female seemed to have punched him in the arm with enough force to cause him to stagger. There was silence, then, “No, I wasn’t planning to exclude you from the concert. Of course my comrades in arms are all invited.”

Jardic was sure that he was dying or hallucinating. He started a new litany of the Chant, interspersing with various pleas for release from his torment, and this mumbling seemed to have caught the attention of the odd-seeming trio. They made a few steps towards the cage where he was housed. “No, Hiss, I wasn’t expecting to find any alive, either. Glad you said something.” Another growl was the only response. 

It was as though that noise sounded an alarm or triggered something in surrounding rock, because suddenly Templars were pouring from every crack and crevice, dropping down from the scaffolding, and simply swarming into the clear ground of the quarry.

“Got it, Pala. You take right, I’ll take left, my Saarebas friend, you’re center stage...this time.” A chord came from the lute that the oddly dressed man swung around from his back, and fire streamed from the instrument, striking the nearest menace in center mass, sending shards of red lyrium flying.

The Qunari woman simply seemed to explode various elements into the air: fire, snow, lightning, all streamed across the field of battle, engulfing fighter after fighter, sending them to their knees or their deaths as she struck. Wordless grunts of exertion came from her as she slid from one side of the fight to the other, leaving a trail of ice and carnage as she went.

A different chord, and a barrier shot up around them all. “I know you keep saying this tune is your favorite, Sister!” There was still no response, and Jardic finally grasped that neither woman spoke. The bard made up for both of them, however, and seemed to be effortlessly carrying both sides of the conversation, which would have been amusing had the situation not been so dire. 

A deft pair of hands slid over the lock on their prison, and the other inmates, who had been either cowering, crying, or both, looked hopefully at the dwarven woman who finally shouted in wordless triumph as the tumblers gave way and their door swung open. She met Jardic’s eyes, and then jerked her head toward the way they had come in. The woman didn’t wait for his response, and jumped directly onto the back of one of the creatures that seemed to have lyrium swords for arms, slicing it to ribbons with her daggers in seconds. She was covered in blood, gore, and red dust that she ignored as she took a running leap at a behemoth, just as the Qunari blasted it with something black and foul looking that smelled of sulfur and death.

“Come on, ladies, sing along, I know you know the words by now! What, no takers? Guess it’s me again!” As he strummed, lightning arced at the knights, shocking them into paralysis in their armor. The Sahrnian took that as his cue, and quickly steered his fellow captives out of the cage and to what he hoped was freedom. The threesome seemed to have the battle well in hand, and the other prisoners had made it past the entrance when a shadow darkened his retreat. 

He turned just in time to see another monster of man and lyrium come barreling down on him, fist about to slam him into the ground and oblivion. He closed his eyes and waited for the end, and then-

Cold. He was suddenly freezing, shivering, ice forming along his eyelashes, sealing his nostrils shut, piercing his panting breaths with shards of winter. He pried his lids open, and saw the Qunari standing amid a pile of shattered offal and frozen blood, breathing slightly hard, skin glistening with sweat, but otherwise unfazed by the massive amount of magic that it must have taken to cause the creature to freeze and explode. “I….” He was struck almost as dumb as the woman herself when he saw her lips were sewn shut. “Thank you. A thousand times thank you, my lady. You have saved my life today.” He gave her a bit of a bow, not sure what was a proper bit of physical obeisance to someone who had saved you from certain death. She just grunted, inclined her head slightly, and turned back to wrap up the fighting. 

He made his way out of the valley that had been cut into the stone, but realized he had forgotten to tell them something. Turning back, he saw them cut down the last of the Templars. “Yes, thank you, Pala,” the man was saying. “I do think that we make a good team, for all you’re rather talkative. I feel like I can’t get a word in edgewise with the way you two gab on and on.” The strange part is that there didn’t seem to be any sarcasm in his tone. It was as though he thought he was actually having the conversations he was answering.

“E-excuse me,” he said, his voice rough and hesitant. All three turned to look at him, and he swallowed hard.

“I wanted to tell you...there are others of us here. I don’t know how many are left, but they’ve been taking us for...I’m not sure how long. But if I survived, there might be more.” 

Both women looked at him seriously, but the man in the now bloodstained white outfit groaned. “Oh yes. There couldn’t be one group of prisoners, there has to be...Maker knows how many in this maze from the Void!” He sighed dramatically. “I’m never going to get back for my performance tonight, and the camp had been clamouring for ZITHER! since we first got here.” The dwarf gurgled in what Jardic thought might have been a laugh.

“I told you I would teach you how to play the lute when we had some free time, Pala, and I keep my word. Of course this doesn’t mean you’ll get to play on stage when the time comes. It takes more than a few notes to make a musician. It takes presence. Now, Hiss here has plenty of that, but I don’t think she’s got the musical inclination….” The three of them seem to have forgotten Jardic’s existence as the bard went off on an intricate explanation about backup singers, stage fright, and something called “groupies,” which the former prisoner wasn’t sure would be an attractive part of being famous. He cleared his throat just as the man was about to launch into an explanation about riffs, and brought his attention back to the matter at hand. 

“Yes? Would you like an autograph? It hardly seems appropriate at the moment, but I hate to disappoint a fan.” He started feeling his pockets for paper.

“No...I just wanted to say thank you again, and if you come into Sahrnia...we don’t have much, but my wife and I...you’re welcome to stay with us.” 

There was silence for a moment as they seemed to take in his words. Then the Qunari woman made a slight growl. “Yes, too right, Hissera. Thank you, er, sorry, I didn’t catch your name in the middle of all the fighting and whatnot.”

“Jardic, Ser. Jardic Du Rien.”

“Jardic. We greatly appreciate the offer, and I would be happy to grace your humble village with a song or two if we should pass throu-ah!” Both women elbowed him sharply and he cried out, stepping away from them. “Everyone’s a critic,” he muttered.

The dwarven woman, for her part, stepped forward and extended a hand, which Jardic took, and they shook. He assumed that was all the answer he would get. “Good luck,” he said to her, and the three took their leave, ZITHER! still muttering about his lack of an appreciative audience.

“Maker go with you and Andraste guide you,” he said softly to their retreating backs before heading out of the tunnel and turning towards home, where there was little food, meager shelter, but there was freedom, and a woman he loved, and that would be enough to sustain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't played DA:I multiplayer, I cannot recommend it highly enough. The characters are a great addition to the Dragon Age world.


	39. There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations occur, and a demon, or is it spirit, is engaged.

Red. Everywhere she looked there was red. Thrusting out of the ground like frozen spurts of blood; the land was wounded, bleeding. And behind it all was that _hum_. It was low and thrumming, and if she stayed still long enough, it was as though the sounds ran through the blood in her system. She shuddered visibly, and rubbed her arms with her hands.

“Creators.” The distracting noise in her mind made her vaguely ill.

“Oh, this is lovely. You take me to the nicest places, dear Rowan.” Dorian’s sarcasm helped to dissipate some of the skin-crawling feeling that she was experiencing. “Really, why don’t we relocate our base of operations to right on top of that outcropping of lyrium in the distance? It will make a lovely accent.”

“Careful, Altus, or I’ll make you the ambassador to this particular outpost. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Every day from your window you could have that view.” She gestured to the frozen tundra. 

“You are too cruel, especially to one as benevolent as I.” He put his hand over his heart dramatically. “I provide my services to the Inquisition, free of charge, mind you, and this is the thanks I get."

"Inquisitor, Dorian, are we quite ready to head out into the field?" Cassandra's voice rang clear and cold across the white expanse. 

"She seems to be agitated. I suspect the red lyrium has made her as on edge as it has me."

“You hear it, too? Like a pot of Sera’s bees buzzing in the back of your mind?”

“It’s scratching, trying to get out, like a song I can’t quite remember and desperately need to.”

“Well, lady Grace, let’s get our work done here, and leave this den of eternal torment as quickly as possible, if it’s all the same to you.”

“You have the best plans, Pavus.”

“Have you two finished admiring the expanse of red death yet, or are we going to be stuck here with that Maker-forsaken humming for another round of dialogue you can deliver while we’re on the move?”

It was easy to tell that the lyrium got to Varric. Anytime he was in its vicinity, his temper was shortened and he became, if possible, more verbose. “Yes, let’s see what we have to deal with.” They stepped down onto the main path, joining the Seeker who was testily shifting sword and shield, impatient to move.

“Varric, you said that the red lyrium sang. I did not believe it was quite so literal. We have encountered it before, but never in such quantities." She waited until the two mages caught up, and proceeded to break a path through the snow.

"The reports...it makes sense that they were so...disjointed," Rowan mused as they trudged on. "How any of our scouts were able to even be coherent is beyond me."

"They are trained by the Nightingale," Cassandra replied simply. "They know their role is to provide information at all costs." Rowan made a mental note to try and find some way to repay the spies for their tireless and invaluable work. It was easy to take the reports for granted, to forget the people writing them and the cost to their safety. And it was all for the betterment of the Inquisition.

The trudge out of Sahrnia was stopped almost before it began when they encountered Michel de Chevin, a disgraced chevalier from Orlais. Rowan had a stray thought that being disgraced in service of the Empress might say more for his moral code than against, but she let it pass. The knight errant expressed serious concern about the danger she was potentially in, and about the demon that had taken up residence in Suledin Keep.

"Oh, how lovely. A demonic welcoming party. Perhaps they'll shower us with presents and virgins and tell us to be on our way. Wouldn't that be a nice change?"

The Orlesian didn't seem to quite grasp Dorian's penchant for dramatic sarcasm, so an odd look was his only response before he launched into a lengthy explanation as to his need to defeat this Imshael, as it was calling itself. Of course this need to defeat the demon could not be undertaken by the Chevalier himself for various half-formed reasons of honor and convenience. Rowan knew that this of course meant that they would be facing down yet another demon of significant power. That this one had claimed a name, and one vaguely familiar to her was a cause for greater concern. That it had a level of self-awareness and individuality meant that it was old, and had spent much time either watching or interacting with humans.

And that type of demon, in the same location as a cadre of Red Templars? It couldn’t be a coincidence. The two sinister powers were likely feeding off of each other, and while they both had a desire for power and dominance, they would work in tandem until such time as one decided it was time to eliminate the other. That was a battle that could leave the world in more of a shambles than either creature alone would cause. She wished she had brought Solas along as well, his knowledge would have likely been invaluable, but she didn’t know that she’d be facing a denizen of the Fade as well as Corypheus’ corrupted army. 

“Serrah, we will face this demon,” she said at last, interrupting the Chevalier’s lengthy explanation of why he hadn’t yet invaded the Keep himself. The man may have been a superb swordsman, but he was taxing to her patience. “I task you with keeping Sahrnia guarded from the Templar threat in the meantime. You ask a favor of us, and that is what I ask in return.”  
He put his first over his heart and bowed slightly. “I live to serve, Lady Inquisitor.” She nodded her head in response, and quickly gathered the others to press on, leaving the knight standing in the snow, looking like a prince from a storybook lost in the wilderness.

“He reminds me of Choir Boy, in the ‘excess of looks, excess of piety’ way. Plus he’s Orlesian.” Varric said that with the distinct indication that it should have explained everything. And, in a way, Rowan supposed it did.

“I found him to be tiresome.”

It was oddly Dorian who came to his defense. “He’s been entrenched in the Game for years, and then cut loose. It’s enough to make anyone flounder. Of course he’s a self-righteous ass; he’s a Chevalier, and that’s part of the description. But he’s out here trying to right wrongs despite being a puppet with no strings attached. I’ll give him a bit of credit for that. Not much; as Varric says, he _is_ Orlesian, but he deserves some.” 

Rowan gave him a small smile. “My Imperial friend, you have a heart of gold under that well-groomed exterior.”

“Of course. I just look shallow, deliberately and carefully so. I have many layers, dear Grace.” He straightened, pointed with his staff in the general direction the Keep was supposed to lay. “Now, shall we go track down this demon? I’d hate to think we went through all of this folderal just to let it slip through our fingers.”

\---------

Her teeth ached with fear. And she shouldn’t have been afraid. She had faced down demons before, but the last time one had spoken to her, she had become its puppet, trapped in the Fade. And even though she didn’t remember the experience, the very thought of that happening again made her fingers and toes numb and heavy, sluggish to respond to commands that were second nature to her. The tears threatened, tightening her throat, and she willed them to stay at bay, to not show more weakness than was already visible, but she felt like she reeked of it, that vile horror that seemed to pour from her in the presence of this unassuming-looking monster.

"I'm offering you a very generous choice, you know," it was saying casually, a study in nonchalance as it rocked back and forth on spotless heels.

"You are a demon. Why would we listen to your lies?" Cassandra was saying, sword at the ready and shield raised, scouring the area for any surprise attacks.

"Choice. Spirit." It annunciated the words as though he was speaking to a child. "And your dear Inquisitor will listen, because she's a smart little Dalish, aren't you, Rowan Amaranth Lavellan?" She shuddered as her name crossed its lips. "And I can give you wonderful choices. All you have to do is not raise your hand against me. Just...walk away. Easy as a walk in the woods."

Dorian laughed haughtily, and the noise made her start, like a rabbit who's heard a twig snap in the forest and freezes, waiting for the hunter. "What could you possibly offer that would send us away like obedient little mabari puppies?"

"I could shower you with presents and virgins," it said, mocking Dorian's earlier words, "or I can give you something much more valuable: power. And not just any power, " he said before she could finally speak, "you can do what you've dreamed of. You can bring the humans and the elves together, you can have that strength with just a little nudge from me. And really, what does it cost you? You don't have to try and kill me, which will just end poorly for you anyway. And if that little broken chevalier dies, well, who will miss him? No one. We all win. All you have to say is-"

"No."

"Did you hear what I'm offering? Are your pointy little ears clogged?"

"I said no," she said quietly, menacingly in a way that had Varric looking at her askance.

He heaved a heavy sigh. "If you insist, I'll kill you, and take care of de Chevin anyway." There was a whiff of something like sulfur, and the demon disappeared, only to reappear behind in her the form of a fear demon.

Terror suffocated her, dragging her down into a nightmare where all she could see was tinged with the red of her companions as they fell to its might. She couldn’t even collapse in shivering horror, her hands over her head, cowering for the end, because her body was frozen, mind and body both betraying her in her moment of need. Eyes wide, she waited for the blow to-

The spell broke, and she could breathe again, great shuddering gulps of air as she tried to remind her fingers how to work, how to form spells that would save them. Varric was hailing bolts down on the demon’s form as fast as he could pull the trigger, piercing hide that oozed black as it was torn open. It screamed in rage that Rowan was free, and her failing brain finally rammed the barrier home as it tried to ensnare her again. 

She could see in her periphery that Cassandra and Dorian were keeping the spawn of the demon at bay, fearlings in the shapes of spiders that made her skin crawl even as they exploded into small showers of oozing debris. The Seeker cleaved through another crawling mini-demon, its head flying away from its body in an arc of dark blood and ichor. The mage for his part was burning them as quickly as they appeared, the acrid smell of animal on fire filling the area around them, and the smoke choked at her.

Without stopping to think, she pushed raw icy power from her hands, blasts of frozen magic hitting the demon in its center of mass, knocking it back into the stone ruins, Varric’s projectiles driving deeper into its back. "This all could have been avoided!" it yelled, the air shimmering around its form yet again.

The blasting heat of a rage demon rolled over the group, sucking the moisture out of the air. The change put a smile on her face, really more of a clenching of teeth, but this form was what she had been looking for, an opening. "Bianca and I have been looking for a fight like this!" Varric cried, firing at the lava form, but they just pulled into its molten center, the demon not noticing the attack. Instead, it advanced on her. 

Lightning crashed and the monster seemed to light up from within, Dorian’s arcing bolts hitting it hard and giving her the moment she needed to focus on that frozen core within her being, the shimmering crystal of power. Touching it was like welcoming an old friend back into her arms, and everything, all the fear and anxiety, fell away in that moment of cold perfection. 

A circle appeared under the feet of the demon, the mental picture Rowan drew recreating itself in a complex series of symbols and runes that danced and glowed against the melting snow. It finished with silent tug on her magic, the snapping completion shooting ice around the indistinct and flowing base of rage, quickly growing in crystalline perfection as it swallowed the beast.

The Seeker, who had held back because of the demon's heat, ran in, death flashing in her eyes and on her sword. She swung in a controlled arc, bringing her power to bear on the frozen form of the monster. It shattered beneath her blade, and for a moment, it seemed that victory was theirs.

And then came the laugh.

"I am not so easy to kill, little elf. But please, continue in your futile efforts. I'd hate to deny you of your choice to die by my hands."

White hot pain lanced across her back, and she screamed as she fell forward. She rolled, pressing the flaming agony into the frozen ground to try and find relief so that she wouldn’t die before she could strike back.

The pride form grinned down at her, predator leering at prey, hunger in its eyes.

Which quickly disappeared in an explosion of gore as twin quarrels pierced its sockets. It let out a bellowing cry that echoed her own earlier, and it flailed madly, whips of electricity sending sparks through the air. 

A barrier flew up over her before one of those erratic strands of power crashed down on her exposed stomach. "Up, Rowan, and quickly!" Dorian called, dropping a healing potion into her hand and holding up the shield while she recovered. She tossed back the liquid, and waited for the power to knit her wound together, moving as quickly as her flayed skin would allow. 

She lent her power to the bubble of protection, and the two mages pushed forward against the blindly swinging demon. Varric’s considerable skill was sorely challenged by the erratic movements of the monster’s form; for all its bulk it moved with enough speed that his bolts were hitting non-critical points on its body.

From behind them came a fierce cry, and as the demon spun around, Cassandra launched herself over their bubble of protection, and plunged her sword into the base of its spine, riding it down as it screeched its death rattle. "How?" came the echoing cry as it fell to the ground, a stray lick of power hitting the Seeker and sending her backwards onto a stone outcropping with a sickening crack.

"Maker’s balls!" Varric, closest to the woman’s landing place, raced to her side, pulling out a potion as he went. “You are an idiot, Seeker, Hawke-level stupid. Have you been out taking lessons from her in suicide by demon?” Fear made his voice thin, and the two mages, gasping and panting at their power expenditure, could do little more than look on as he railed at the prone warrior.

A groan, and the Seeker lifted her head. "The Champion is far more reckless than I. I am merely scraped a bit. And you are a mother hen, Varric." Nevertheless, she took the bottle he handed her, and drank deeply, sighing a little as the liquid did its work of healing her wounds.

The rogue put out a hand for Cassandra to take, and she stood with a groan. "I’ve watched too many people fall while being reckless heroes. I don’t feel like adding more to the list."

"Careful, Varric, or I may think you care." There was a bare hint of amusement in her voice.

"I need _someone_ to read Swords  & Shields if I’m going to keep writing it."

"That is incentive enough not to die." She moved stiffly, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. The stone under her was cracked, and there were new dents in her armor, battle scars of another fight that the steel would tell. Being a warrior who valued her weapon, she pulled her blade from the demon’s rapidly disintegrating form, and quickly wiped it down on the lower hem of her tabard.

The four of them were in a shambles, most outfits torn and bloody, Rowan and Cassandra limping, and Dorian had a nasty gash across his forehead that was slowly dripping blood down his cheek. She thought absently that even his wounds were rakish, which made an hysterical little bubble of laughter erupt out of her. 

The other three glanced at her, and then they, too, started chuckling. It wasn't so much that they were laughing at anything in particular, but the sense of relief at surviving overwhelmed them all.

It took them more than a moment to recover, but when they did, the worst of the clinging fright had let go of her, and while the singing lyrium still called in her mind, she knew that the back of Corypheus’ stronghold in Emprise had been broken.


	40. Speech without word and Word of no speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Champion finds herself on a precipice, and only debates about the kind of jump she'll make.

The raven came two days after Lavellan and her band of merry adventurers headed out for the Emprise. At least, that’s what the girl that she was told to call Squint let her know when she delivered the daily espionage. She had to give the hairy-chested nug-lover credit; he knew how to run spies well, and he knew how to keep informed of the goings on in the Inquisition. She’d have called it a natural talent if she hadn’t watched him hone and perfect the work over the years, going from a basic information broker to a full-fledged ringleader of a spy network that may not have had the edge of ruthlessness that was the signature of the Nightingale’s, but was still effective. Even if he did tend to treat them more like his children than his assets.

She tossed a coin at the girl, who stared at it askance, as though debating whether or not to bite on it to test its veracity before heading out the door and into the crowds that always seemed to be milling about the grounds of the keep. She disappeared effortlessly, just another faceless member of the throng of the Inquisition.

Hawke pulled a second coin out of her pocket. This one was dented, scratched, ugly and defaced with age and use. But it was enough for what she needed to do. “Heads I stay, Kirkwall, I piss a whole lot of people off.” She had no doubt which way the coin would land. The symbol of the City of Chains stared up at her from its place on the floor. “Well, shit. Thought I might be dealt a different hand this time.”

With a sigh, she heaved herself off of Varric’s bed; she usually spent the nights he was out with the elf in his room. She didn’t know why. No, she knew why, but she didn’t talk about it with anyone, including herself. She had almost convinced herself it was because of his collection of books and not because the room reminded her of him, smelled of ink and leather and the oil he used to keep Bianca supple and in prime condition.

_Lucky bitch. No person gets that much attention from him. No person gets that much attention from anyone, if I’m being honest. That piece of machinery is the most spoiled contraption in Thedas and beyond._

She was stalling. She knew she was stalling, trying to put off the inevitable. She was the Champion of Kirkwall. She had work to do that she didn’t want to do. She _wanted_ to curl back up on top of his coverlet and guiltily reread Sword  & Shields again from cover to cover, breathe in the delicious scent of print, paper, and unrestrained bodice-ripping. It was horrible trash, but it was _his_ horrible trash, and that made all the difference.

“Fine. Fuck you, Fate.” It wasn’t like she didn’t already have a satchel packed with her essentials, and her staff, fat lot of good that unwieldy piece of wood did, rested against his lampstand. Sure, it channeled her magic, turning fire into lightning, but it was a giant stick. It got in the way, and instantly branded her as a mage, because what other idiot would be walking around with a staff that had a glowing crystal on its tip? It didn’t even fit across her back properly. Really, she considered leaving it behind. But then she thought about the missive from Stroud and that scout he had traveled to the Approach with, and figured it was best to take all the power she could with her.

“What in the _Void_ do those idiots think they’re doing?’” She was going to have her hands full; they all would, once the Inquisitor and her entourage returned. Though it was likely that they’d go directly from Emprise to the Western Approach once they received the missive. That’s why she needed a head start, to get there first, maybe wrap up whatever the situation was before the Inquisition crew made their way out into that Maker-forsaken country.

Because everything that was happening...it was her fault. She may have called the Wardens idiots, and they were, there was no doubt about that, but she was just as big of a fool for letting that bastard loose to wreak so much destruction on the world. She should have done more to make sure Corypheus was dead, should have taken the time to examine every nuance. She _knew better_. Nothing in her life had been simple, easy, or straightforward. Why would something like an ancient Darkspawn magister who had breached the Golden City who was sealed away with her father’s blood be any different?

The pack was on her back by that point, the wooden length in her hand; for all of her griping there were softly worn spots along the staff that told of her frequent wielding. The oils of her fingers slowly wore away at the finish on the stick until it uniquely fit her, became an extension of her arm, a familiar, if aggravating, old friend. She hadn’t consciously realized she was leaving until one foot was out the door. And she stopped. Turned. Looked back at the room that spoke volumes about the best friend that she had, the truest one. She knew that she couldn’t leave without a word, not again. He’d never forgive her. 

To be fair, he probably wouldn’t forgive her for leaving period, but that was something she’d deal with later.

Laying down her gear, she crossed to his desk where each pigeonhole was filled with bits of parchment, quills, ink, or other implements essential to a writer. The knotholes and whorls of the tree the writing surface had come from were stained black from drops of liquid words that had fallen onto them, woven into the cracks and imperfections. She smiled at the scene. He was a merchant prince, the leader of a spy ring, a battle-tested rogue. He was all of those things, yes. But first and foremost, he was an author. Writing to Varric Tethras was like breathing; he couldn’t be separated from it. He’d hem and haw and protest that he was a bit of a hack, but Hawke had seen the gleam in his eyes when inspiration struck, the itch in his fingers to find a writing utensil and record his thought before it escaped him. Putting words down, making worlds and people and situations come to life...that was his passion, his calling. Take all the rest of it away, and he’d still be her dwarf. Take away his words, and he was a pale imitation of life.

Pulling a fresh sheaf of parchment out of one of his cubbyholes, and taking quill to ink, she began to scratch out her note to him. It wasn’t long, or flowery. There was none of the dramatic flourish that he was so famous for. It was simply what she needed to say to him, to explain, to put down on paper what he had to know. And hopefully he would never have to read it; she could steal up to his room and snatch it away before he was even aware. After her last disappearing act, she owed him that much, the courtesy of her reasoning. He still wouldn’t like it, but at least it would be an answer.

She refused to agonize over her choice of words; he would understand what she was trying to say. He always did, even when he pretended not to have a clue. She signed with a rough sweep of her hand across the bottom of the page. There was only one thing left to do. 

Retrieving her pack, she took out her favorite copy of the Tale; this particular edition had her larger than life across the front cover...and distinctly male, if the rather exaggerated lower extremities were any indication of gender. There was no particular rhyme or reason to it; gratefully Varric’s Tale had been more cheeky than sordid, but some publisher got it into his or her mind to promote the fictional Hawke’s...attributes. She had spent an hour doubled over in laughter when she had first seen the artwork, but quickly took joy in reading it in public, cover fully on display where anyone and everyone could see just what she was perusing. The dwarf just shook his head when she performed one of these antics, and she would smile back and insist she was trying to drive up sales. “After all, my height-restricted friend, it’s motivated self-interest. I have a stake in your copy numbers. A situation that was set up by you if I recall correctly. Are you saying I should let your, and by extension my, popularity wane?”

“I’m saying that you’re a sadist, Marian. You like watching my discomfort. You revel in it.”

“Oh, does Hawke make you feel inadequate?”

“He’d make a druffalo feel inadequate, and don’t point that cover at me.”

She chuckled again as she laid the book out on the table, flipping to one particular passage before leaving the folded note in between the pages, and making sure it was displayed just so. Not that he could miss the thing, but she wanted to make very sure that there was no mistaking who it was from.

_You know you’re running away again._

_I am not. I’m off to get work done._

_You’re leaving so you don’t have to face...things. See? Even your subconscious is stifled by your insecurity._

_You don’t know me._

_That makes no sense. I am you._

_Shut up._

_I’m constantly overwhelmed by your maturity level. How old are you now, thirty-f-_

_No. Let’s definitely not have a discussion about my age, old man. No matter how old I am, you’ll always be older. Much older. Ancient._

_Petty jabs won’t do any good. I’m not him, remember? I just sound like him, act like him, give advice like him…_

_Nag like him, cajole like him, challenge my calm like him…._

_Now you’re catching on._

_I think I hate you._

_I think you’re using the wrong word._

_...Shut. Up._

She grabbed her pack again, one book lighter this time, and headed out the door, slamming it with more force than was remotely necessary, startling the doves that were roosting in the eaves above his room. “Shit on me and I’ll feed you to the nugs,” she growled. They seemed unconcerned by her threat, though they flew by without incident.

_Talking to animals now? Isn’t that more of a Daisy thing? Or Bl-_

_Don’t._

The voice retreated, the threat in her mind sufficient to stifle her subconscious for the time being. 

No one seemed to take notice of her leaving, or so she thought at first. It was dark, and the night watch was looking for people approaching, not heading out. A movement out of the corner of her eye had her spotting what she suspected was the spirit-boy, Cole, but when she glanced at the location she thought she had seen him, there was nothing. She saluted anyway, since the strange young man always seemed to be watching, and knew her thoughts whether she wanted him to or not.

A few well-placed coins got her one of the horses from the stables, the mount she had been using since she had arrived at Skyhold. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out who had taken it, but she wasn’t necessarily looking to hide, just to get enough of a head start that the sherry-eyed bastard couldn’t catch up and try to drag her back to be part of a group, to go into the Approach as a team. Teams had to be watched. Teams got killed. Maybe if it had just been the two of them, she would have considered waiting, but she knew the way he was. He had committed to Lavellan and the Inquisition, and he would go along with her plans, as idealistic as they were at times. 

Varric cared about the Breach because he cared about Kirkwall. It was his home, and it was already recovering from a Qunari invasion, a Chantry explosion, and was dealing the pervasive infestation of red lyrium’s effects in the minds of countless numbers within its walls. Add the giant green glowing hole in the sky and the crazy bastard who decided it was time for the good old days of the dragon-god-worshipping Tevinter Imperium to return, and there was no way Varric Tethras was going to turn his back on the group that had the best chance of stopping at least one of those threats. But Corypheus being free...that was on her. That was her mistake, and she wasn’t going to let more people die than already had because she had gotten cocky and thought that a dead Darkspawn could be taken at its wordless corpse. She was sloppy, and now the world was being ripped apart at the seams. The least she could do was try and stopper the hole she had helped create. And if that took her body as the plug, well, that was the way shit fell. 

As the moon rose up over the Frostbacks, Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, defender of innocents and not-so-innocents rode out over the bridge that connected Skyhold to the rest of Thedas. The horse’s hooves made a steady beat along the stones, echoing in the quiet chilly night as she put more distance between herself and the first place she had felt like she belonged since leaving behind the Hanged Man and its den of iniquity. Necessary. It was necessary. She had to keep remembering that. She was doing this for them. For all of them.

She disappeared in a blur of snow and shadows, heading towards untold disaster, likely extensive bloodshed, and a fairly high chance of her death. It was another day ending in -y. 

“I fucking hate being noble.”


	41. I have it in me so much nearer home to scare myself with my own desert places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations of unconventional natures occur; we make headway into the Western Approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long. And all credit goes to [Eisen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen) and [MaryDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon/pseuds/MaryDragon) for the number of words. This dynamic due of wonderful fellow authors is...motivational. Any quality issues, those are all on me.

The raven came as they were breaking camp. Rowan unrolled the parchment that was attached the to the bird’s leg, and swore softly. “ _Fenedhis._ ”

“I’ve been around enough elves to know that means good news is coming next,” Varric said dryly. She looked down at her companion.

“The Grey Wardens are...there’s a Magister with them, which I suspect means Venatori. I doubt whoever it is has benign plans for them. And Harding says there are demons, well, everywhere.”

“Have they gone mad? What in the Void do they think they’re doing?” Cassandra’s voice raised in pitch slightly, disbelief coloring her words. “Does it say anything else?”

She shook her head. “Very little. Just that the faster we get there, and the more people we can bring, the better. If Lace is rattled….”

“Then we have a problem.” A second rolled scroll waited behind the first, and she read that one as well, her words turning much more colorful, before she handed it to Varric. He skimmed it and groaned.

“That _idiot_. What do I need to do, put a bell on her to keep her from sneaking off to commit heroic suicide?” The note crumpled in his hand. “Shit.”

Cassandra looked between the two. “I am assuming that the Champion got word of what was happening and has decided to head to the Western Approach on her own?” The warrior had a hard time looking disapproving. It was the sort of thing she would have done in her younger years, when she was more impulsive, more concerned about saving the world than taking proper precautions.

“Yes, Seeker, your idol has decided that it’s time to play hero and has run off to take on a fortress filled with Wardens and demons and Maker knows what else on her own. Because she has no ability to think beyond blasting a giant ball of fire in the face of anyone who pisses her off.” Varric was angry, but it was worry that drove it, fear for Hawke and her ridiculous sense of responsibility.

“I have to say, I admire your Champion’s bravado, but does she actually have a death wish of some sort?” Dorian had ambled up to join the others as they had looked over the various sheets of paper. “Taking on a Magister of the level that would be chosen by our enemy is definitely in the realm of suicidal actions.”

Varric wasn’t particularly demonstrative when it came to expressing his frustration, but he had an overwhelming urge to shove Bianca in someone’s face and pull the trigger until the firing pin broke. As it was, he brushed his hands over the crossbow’s stock. “Are we going to continue standing around here and analyzing Hawke’s mental state, or are we going to get our asses to the Approach before something worse happens...like she decides to open her own personal hole in the Fade to suck them all in...just on a whim?”

*****

There was sand stuck in various crevices of her body. Everything itched. She was hot. She had tossed the robes aside a few hours into crossing the Approach. Sitting on the back of the horse meant that the sand was mixing with sweat in incredibly sensitive areas, and a rash was inevitable. “What was I thinking? I must have a death wish after all. And here I thought I was just being stupidly heroic.”

_You have the stupid part right._

_Oh, thank you for the vote of confidence._

_Hey, that’s nothing compared to what the actual me is going to be thinking once he finds out that you lit off for the Western Approach with nothing more than your wits and a staff._

_And a horse. Don’t forget that I brought a horse with me._

_None of this instills confidence in any sort of upcoming success with your little foray into the bowels of insanity. What are you actually planning to do once you get to this fortress of iniquity?_

_…_

_You were just going to launch fireballs at them until they begged for mercy, weren’t you?_

_...Maybe._

_You’ve never been one for elaborate scheming and planning, have you?_

_How long have you known me?_

_That’s a bit of a metaphysical question. Technically I am you, so I’ve known you my whole life. Which is your whole life. Which-_

_Never mind. Whether you’re him or me, you’re an asshole._

_Such language, really Marian._

_Oh please, I’ve heard you use worse on by yourself when trying to edit your-you know what, screw you, I don’t have to explain myself to you._

The sun was relentless. Lavellan’s work with snow and ice may have kept her more comfortable in cooler temperatures, but nothing in all of her years slinging fire had prepared her for the kind of oppressive heat that shimmered up from the sand. She was grateful that she had taken a hat, regardless of how ridiculous looking, off of a bandit who had decided to try his luck with her.

His luck hadn’t held. At least not the good kind. The hapless bastard had ended up with a hole through the center of chest before he could finish uttering “Stand and deliver.” And she had gotten a new head covering that kept the worst of the day’s heat off of her face. It had even missed having blood spattered on it.

_You know, if you had just waited, you would have been supplied-_

_Yes, and I would have had all sorts of people who would have gotten between me and danger, and then when they got hurt or worse, I could have added more bodies to the pile._

_You’re the only one keeping track._

_I’m the only one who counts._

The conversations with...herself...had been increasing in frequency and duration the longer she was on the rough path through the desert. She figured it was the solitude and the heat combined that were driving her a bit crazy.

_A bit?_

Or maybe she was just tired of fighting her insanity.

_Or maybe you’re just lonely and refused to admit that you don’t want to be alone in the desert heading towards what you assume is your death._

Whatever it was, she wished she could compartmentalize. She used to be so good at that, at locking away her emotions when they were inconvenient, grieving when she had a moment to spare, in private, where no one knew. 

_Except.…_

Yes, except. Except _him_ , because he knew every damn thing about her, whether she liked it or not. Because when the tears had finally come, when she had finally had a minute to breathe between the Arishok deciding that the Viscount looked better with his head separated from his shoulders and Anders-and the Chantry exploding, she had to let go. The tears came, unwilling, unbidden, hot and hated and running down her cheeks, weakness pouring from her eyes.

And he was there. Holding her. Letting her drown his shoulder with loss, scream wordlessly into his skin as the barriers fell away and she realized how truly alone she was, how broken and shattered her existence had become because those who shared her blood had dwindled to almost nothing. How she had taken their existence for granted...Father...Bethany...Mother, assumed each one would be there forever. Until they weren’t. And one by one she had lost parts of herself. And Carver; he was still alive, but he might as well have died for the way he had cut her off, refused to acknowledge her existence, blaming her, and rightly so, she felt, for their deaths, for her inability to protect them all.

Still, he hadn’t run, hadn’t cast blame, hadn’t doubted her. He let her cry herself into exhaustion, passing out in his arms in front of the fire, the weight of so much guilt pouring forth driving her into welcome unconsciousness. He didn’t say a word when she awoke the next day, a pillow under her head and a coverlet over her, head pounding as though she had taken on Isabela in a drinking contest and won. He simply handed her a glass of water, left a change of her clothes that he had procured from...somewhere, and went out to wait for her in the tavern proper.

They never spoke of it.

“I am not out here to reminisce over my less glamorous moments,” she said to the oppressive air, trying for a tone of stern finality, but falling short. With a sigh of exasperation at her own weakness, her inability to control the flow of her mind, she continued on as the daylight beat down on her, sapping her strength.

She hoped that wherever Stroud and Harding were, they had some damn shelter, because her skin was blistering in the sun, an unpleasant blotchy red that alternated between itching and burning, and was beyond painful to touch even lightly. It felt as though the light hairs on her arms were pinpoints of agony as they moved in the slight breeze stirred when the horse moved. 

She wanted to moan with pain. 

She wanted to turn around and run back to Skyhold and hide under her bed until the world was either fixed or came to an end. 

She did neither, because neither would do a damn bit of good; all it would do was validate her own deep-rooted belief that she wasn’t strong enough to solve the problems that she had caused. And as stubborn as she was when it came to proving everyone else wrong, she was determined to show her own weak mind that she had the skill to clean up her own mess.

A growl interrupted her thoughts. “Oh for _fuck’s sake_ ,” she muttered as another miserable creature covered in scales and feathers and a winning personality that likely came from spending far too much time in the miserable heat with far too little food available charged at her and her mount. Ignoring the screaming of her skin, she gathered the flames in her hand and shot jets of fire at its ugly face. The horse, a steady animal, still didn’t appreciate an angry monster half its size and on fire coming at its legs and it reared up, nearly unseating her in the process.

That was enough for her to completely lose her composure, and a ball of lightning followed the fire, downing the pathetic monster with a scream before it exploded into various bits of carnage. Her mount bolted as the hot pieces of flesh met its body, and it took all of her strength to pull its head around, to calm it enough that she regained control and it didn’t barrel headlong off a cliff or break its leg struggling through the sand in its panic. She could still see the whites in its eyes as it heaved breaths through nostrils that flared wildly. Sweat poured down its neck and disappeared under the saddle, and foam flecked around the bit in its mouth. But eventually it steadied, as though it remembered it was a creature of dignity, better than its moment of wild heedless abandon. She stroked its long neck, attempting comfort, something she hadn’t done in far too long for anyone, including herself. 

Focusing on the animal helped her to shake out of her ruminations, brought her back to her purpose for being in the blasted desert. She was looking to stop whatever plans Corypheus and the Venatori and apparently the Wardens had planned to rip the world apart at the seams. And she could complain all she wanted about the discomfort and the heat, she could hide behind internal dialogue that constantly questioned her motives and mindset, but she had a job to do, a mission to fulfill, and she wasn’t going to let anyone, including herself, stop her from doing so.

_Does the rousing speech help?_

_No one asked you._

********

She stood staring at the crumbling Tevinter ruin that seemed ready to fall off the edge of the world into the abyss below. Even from a distance she could see the glow of magic, could feel the intense pull of the Fade as something immense was happening, and when Wardens and Venatori were involved, together, it was nothing good. Add demons to the mix, and there was a very real chance the end of the world was being formed.

“Yup. I fucking hate being noble.”

She also came to the maddeningly sensible conclusion that the situation in front of her was too large to disrupt on her own. Short of setting explosives off at the base of the stronghold and hoping it captured everyone in the cataclysm, there was no way she could face off against a force as large as what awaited. And that chafed her ass worse than the sand.

The note that had been intercepted gave her an approximate location of where Stroud and the Inquisition’s scout, Harding, were holed up waiting for reinforcements. Having company, even the dour mustached Warden’s, would be preferable to her current solitary state. Maybe then his voice would stop pulling at her, stop trying to get her to be _reasonable._

_I said sensible. I have no illusions about you ever seeing reason._

She took a circuitous route around the rolling dunes, so no one on watch at the tower would notice her approach. It was dusk before she was able to track down their makeshift camp, hidden well against the blocks of some long-forgotten monument to Imperial immortality. She almost snorted at the irony that the new powers at play took shelter in the shadow of the old. But that was more the kind of thing Varric could wax poetic about. She was there to stop sinister plots, not write a treatise on the rise and fall of various Thedosian empires. 

A slight creaking noise brought her out of her thoughts, and she looked down to see an arrow pointed at her chest. “That’s far enough, identi-oh, Serrah Hawke, I didn’t recognize you in….” Harding was at a loss for words, and released the draw on her bow.

“This charming _chapeau_ as the cheese-eaters would say?” she replied. “I don’t blame you. No one would if you shot me simply for wearing it. Even Isabela would turn her nose up at this thing.” She touched the oversized brim and grimaced at the sight she was sure she made. “But, it does the job when wandering around this blasted desert.” She slid off the back of the horse, which went straight toward the shade of a lone tree, casting a baleful eye at the two legged creatures who were stupid enough to stand out under even the waning sun.

“That’s a damn smart animal,” the scout replied as she turned back towards the blocks of stone. “Let’s get out of this and under cover. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Expect-damn it.”

The dwarven woman’s mouth turned up in a bit of a smile. “There are two letters waiting for you from the Inquisitor and Master Tethras.”

“My day just keeps getting better. What do they say?”

She shook her head. “They’re for you. I didn’t take the liberty of reading them, though I know that Stroud has been sorely tempted more than once.” Harding shrugged. “Terrifying prospects or not, waiting can get fairly boring after a while.”

The lean-to blended almost seamlessly against the backdrop of the desert. If she hadn’t been specifically looking for a sign of their existence, she would have missed it completely. Crawling into the darkness after being in blinding light for so long day after day took some adjustment, but her eyes adjusted enough to see the other figure in the space.

“Ser Hawke, I see that you’ve decided to join us out here in the Approach.” She could hear his mustache bristle. “I’m afraid until reinforcements get here there is not much to be done but rest on our laurels.” There was strain in his voice, worse than when she had met him in Crestwood.

“And the Calling?”

“It is ever-present, I am afraid, and growing stronger by the day. I fear that it is only a matter of time until I am unable to resist its pull. At that point, Scout Harding knows-”

“Scout Harding knows what needs to be done. Yes, we’ve gone over this Maker knows how many times. Attempt to restrain you. Barring that, put an arrow into your leg to cripple you so that you cannot give away our position.” Her voice was flat. “After all this time I would think you could trust me to carry out a few simple instructions, _Warden_.” She looked over at Hawke. “This has been an almost daily conversation since we arrived here. Is he always this stubborn?”

Hawke smiled slightly. “As far as I’m aware, this is typical for Grey Wardens. They’re intractable, to say the least.” She shifted in her seat, impatient even as she half-dreaded what awaited her. And uncomfortable. She was definitely going to have the most intense saddle sores Thedas had ever seen. “You mentioned missives?”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” She reached into one of her pouches and took out two rolled parchments. “These are the ones.”

Flicking her wrist, a little mage light floated in the air above her lap, and she could make out the two distinctive sets of handwriting, one flowing and elegant, the other Varric’s. “This will be interesting.” She unrolled Lavellan’s first.

_Hawke,_

_You’re under no obligation to listen to me, of course, but I would ask that you wait until we arrive to approach the Wardens and their Venatori companion. We will all have a greater chance of success if we’re united as a single front._

_If anything happens to you in my absence, I will hold myself personally responsible for not being able to arrive in a timely fashion and fight at your side._

_I would also be devastated to lose someone I consider a friend. Please at least consider my request._

_Yours,_

_Rowan_

She frowned at the paper. “Hitting below the belt, Lavellan.” Even if she had still planned on taking on the Wardens by herself, knowing that the Inquisitor would take on the guilt for her death in that situation would have stopped her. Because she knew the weight of responsibility, and was loathe to add anymore to the little Dalish’s burdens.

And then she looked at the other letter waiting for her. She knew what would be in there; scathing admonishments, paragraphs on trusting others, lines and lines detailing her need to work together to reach her desired goal. She almost didn’t open it.

Almost.

But she let curiosity override her, and besides that, she knew that she deserved whatever waited.

_Don’t die, Marian._

That was it. Three words, written cleanly and precisely. He didn’t even sign it.

“Oh shit.”

She was in deep, deep trouble.

*******

They had gotten on the road almost as soon as she had sent responses to the letters that came from Skyhold. She didn’t give directives on how to move troops, didn’t tell them where to send spies. Those were the jobs for her advisors, and she trusted their expertise. She simply sent word that she wanted the rest of her companions to join them along with the standard ground troops.

She specifically wanted Solas. His dealings with spirits and demons had always been invaluable, and she regretted that he wasn’t with them to travel to the Approach so that they could discuss what possible situations they could run into. Her hahren had forgotten more than whole schools of mages had learned about the Fade and its denizens.

The Fade. Rowan almost slapped her own forehead at her stupidity, and looked down at the amulet around her neck. She had a direct conduit to him if she had bothered to remember the gift that he had given her, the protection that he offered, the reason she hadn’t been locked once again in an unending nightmare courtesy of the Elder One.

Sleeping on her mount wasn’t easy, and she let Varric know what she was attempting. Despite his almost constant glower and stony silence since they had left Emprise, he did seem intrigued by her train of thought. “Messing around in the Fade is a terrible idea, Grace. Still don’t know how you and humans stand being in that place. But I suppose if you have to talk to Chuckles, he knows what to watch out for.” He put a hand on her arm. “Just, be careful. I already have to deal with the fact that Hawke’s throwing herself in front of Maker knows what because she’s trying to kill me. I don’t want to have to drag your ass out of the Fade, too.”

“I will be, Author,” she said with a slight smile. “And Hawke will be...well, I won’t say fine, because we both know better than that, but she’ll wait for us, I think. Depending on what you told her, of course.”

His eyes hardened. “I told her what she needed to hear.” He let go of her and slid his mount away, trying to keep from lapsing back into his own dark thoughts. “But I’ll keep watch, and if something decides to attack us, I’ll do my damnedest to wake you up.” He attempted a smile, but it looked like a grimace of pain. “Gives me something to do besides seethe.”

“Thanks Varric,” she replied, and then took a deep breath, trying to remember her lessons from so many years before, of bringing her conscious mind into the Fade, letting the world around her, no matter what distractions it held, slip away.

It took a few tries; the gait of her hart wasn’t noticeable until she was trying to block it out and then each step felt like a jolt to her body, but eventually she slid into the rhythmic sway and let it help carry her away from wakefulness.

_Breathe in, breathe out. Let the Fade embrace you._

Darkness was first. The pure blackness that meant there was no light whatsoever, no penetration of day, of reality. Then, slowly, tendrils of green, with their own self-contained glow of power, began to swirl through the void. She stood among them, sending her entreaty to the mage who was linked to her through the talisman she wore.

“Lethal’lan.”

He arrived between one moment and the next, standing before her as though he had been just a few paces away in the dark instead of the countless miles that separated them.

“Solas,” she said with a breath of relief, and she smiled despite the seriousness of the topic at hand. He was part of her family for all of his carrying on about the Dalish and their lost history. He may have considered himself other, but she didn’t. “It’s good of you to come.”

“I will always come when you call, ma’falon.” He didn’t quite grin, but his face lightened slightly, driving some of the lines of worry that seemed to constantly plague him away. “It is why I’m on the road now with the rest of the Inquisition’s forces. But there is something urgent to discuss? The mention of demons among the Wardens?”

“Yes. What does this mean? Are they being attacked, held somehow by these creatures? Could Corypheus direct them to-”

He put a hand up. “It is unlikely. Not impossible, of course, but there are other possibilities that are just as grave, if not more so.”

“But unless there’s a rift over this area of the Approach, the only other scenario that makes sense is-oh. Oh no.” Rowan shook her head, and those tendrils of verdant power twined themselves through her hair, tracing the lines of her braid, before settling in like glowing ribbons adorning her plait. She saw none of this, but Solas watched, fascinated, as the Fade responded to her presence, and her increased agitation. “You’re saying that the Wardens are _summoning_ them? Why? Why would they do that?”

His eyes sparked with anger, returning his focus to the conversation. “There are any number of reasons that fools would torture spirits, but the greatest one is the simplest: power. Holding a demon at bay gives you access to its abilities, its tie to the Fade. It becomes a weapon of immense ability, and wielded with skill it can devastate countless numbers in its path. Of course, few if any have the ability to do so, and so the typical outcome is the corpse of a fool and a demon loose in the world to wreak havoc until it is vanquished.”

“But this is more than one Warden doing something foolhardy. If Harding’s numbers are remotely accurate, there are dozens of them. And to summon a demon...there’s more than a simple circle.”

“Yes. It requires blood magic. This is one of those rare times when my beliefs are in line with the Chantry’s. While blood magic itself is just a tool, the use of it here is...that is a true abomination. To pervert one’s own life force to bind another being to them is monstrous, unforgivable.” She knew that he was thinking about the fate of his friend, the spirit of Wisdom that had died at the hands of foolish mages with a little knowledge and a great amount of fear. Her judgment of them, as she sent them to care for the Tranquil in Skyhold under Maeve’s supervision may have seemed like a light sentence to Solas. But she knew when she saw the fear in their eyes at the mere mention of _Tranquil_ that she had made the correct choice.

“Whatever they’re doing, Lethal’lin, this is not like before. They are deliberately working towards some purpose that cannot be benevolent, no matter what they may think or tell us. They will not be allowed to get away with this. I will no more let spirits be bound than I would elves or other humans. It is all slavery.”

His eyes widened slightly at her words and her tone. “I-” He stopped, at a loss for words, something that was rarer for him than it was for Varric. “Thank you, Rowan.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, he even reached out a hand to her slightly, but pulled it back when he realized what he was doing. “That means...a great deal.”

“You’ve taught me so much, hahren, and among those lessons is that we misunderstand spirits as much as each race tends to misunderstand one another. Cole is perhaps the greatest example of how little we truly know of their abilities and their place within our world. He is both spirit and human, and yet not truly either. And the thought of him being taken, being made to serve at some mage’s whim...it sickens me.” She reached out to him this time, took his hand in hers. “I will do everything I can.” Rowan met his eyes. “I need to get back. The longer I stay here, the harder it will be to wake up, and I need to stay alert to the dangers.”

He was loathe to let her go. He had few enough moments with her, just her, without the distractions of the rest of the world to pull them apart. And he was a damned fool for even beginning to go down that path again. Gently, he prised his fingers from hers, lingering just an extra moment to savor the cool touch of her skin against his. “Go, and I will join you as quickly as possible. And please,” he paused, the entreaty sounding a bit desperate even to him, “if you have need of me, do not hesitate. I am always here for you.”

Her smile was sunlight on the snow. “Ma melava halani, ma’falon.” The green slid away from her, retreating back into the darkness as she loosed her hold on her place in the Fade.

“Ara melava son’ganem, ma’vh-” His words were cut off as she opened her eyes back in the Approach, the bright light of day momentarily blinding her. She blinked as her eyes watered, tears tracking in the sand and dust on her face.

“Everything alright there, Grace?”

She shook her head as she looked over at Varric. “No. Things are most definitely not alright.” She summarized what Solas had said, and his rather colorful response included some unfortunate recommendations on violating nugs that turned her ears red.

“And _that’s_ what she’s walking into? That’s what we’re _all_ walking into? Are you sure there isn’t another army we can draw from? Or four? This isn’t a simple ‘walk in and rescue the poor Wardens’ situation anymore. They’re part of the problem. A big, powerful part of the problem with a whole lot of resources and a lack of concern for their own mortality.”

She pulled her hart to a stop; she was loathe to delay their journey at all, but the others needed to know as well what they were potentially headed for. Cassandra and Dorian had similar reactions to Varric, though slightly less colorful. “I’m not sure that this is what’s happening. But unfortunately it just makes a terrible kind of sense.”

“Then let’s not delay any longer, Inquisitor,” the Seeker said formally, her visage cold and hard. “The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can put a stop to this madness.” 

“And I thought the Magisterium was trouble by itself,” Dorian muttered. “These Venatori make them look like declawed kittens in comparison, because I’m sure the entire Grey Warden order didn’t come up with this idea on their own. Whatever the reasoning they were given, Corypheus and his ilk are getting something in return for this delightful bit of insanity.” He straightened in his saddle, wiping sweat from his brow. “Well, let’s not keep them waiting any longer than necessary, shall we?”

As one, they increased the speed of their mounts as much as they dared in the oppressive heat, walking a fine line between urgency and caution. They took care to avoid as much conflict as possible, and despite the possible hazards in staying on the most direct path, strayed little from the road that led them deeper into the Approach, towards whatever horror awaited them at the edge of the Abyssal Rift.


	42. A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations and consultations on the way to Adamant.

“So...wait. He ran off?” Hawke was looking around at the bodies of dead Wardens and demons that littered the stones of the Tevinter tower. “He fucking left while we were fighting these idiots?”

Rowan could feel a headache building behind her temples. The heat of the Approach was wearing on her, a drain on her ability to concentrate on her magic that usually came so readily to her hands. It was so arid and dry that even the manipulated energies of the Fade had a difficult time forming the ice that was second nature to her. She expended far more will than normal when fighting the enthralled Wardens.

And there was something terrifyingly familiar about the expressions on their faces, single-minded determination in each of them making them formidable opponents. It’s not that they didn’t know they were doing wrong, they simply didn’t care, because they thought they were working for the greater good of all Thedas. They were taking their oath to the extreme, willing to die for their cause even at the hands of those who would normally be allies, all because they believed that binding demons in numbers large enough to form an army would be the best way to stop any future Blights.

“I said he was a tool,” Dorian replied absently, wiping ichor off of his clothing. He grimaced. “Demon does _not_ come out of brocade. Believe me, I’ve tried everything short of blood magic, and there’s no hope for these robes.”

“I could burn it out,” Hawke said, perfectly serious, a raised eyebrow her only tell that she was toying with the Altus.

“It’s her solution for everything,” Varric interjected darkly. “Throw fire at it until it dies, is engulfed in flames, or is a pile of ash.”

“It’s a simple methodology.” He didn’t respond to her banter, simply headed out of the tower and back to his mount. The lack of back and forth actually stunned the entire group, because even at the darkest moments the two shooting scathing barbs at one another relieved the urgent tension of the moment. It had almost become expected, and its absence disturbed everyone.

“Andraste’s...oh to the Void with this, he can pout all he wants.” She turned to Rowan. “What’s our next course of action, Lavellan? I’d guess we meet up at Adamant?”

She nodded, the throbbing becoming more intense in the heat of the day. She rubbed her temples, eyes half open, trying and failing to fend off the nauseating pain. “Yes. Cassandra, if you could direct Harding to send missives to the Commander and the Spymaster to confirm our troop movement in that direction, and give them a thorough synopsis of what we’re about to face, with a copy to Warden Blackwall so that he’s also prepared to face down his fellow members of the Order, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Of course Inquisitor, might I recommend that you-”

“Oh yes. I’m getting out of this damned heat before I go blind.” An arm on her elbow helped to steer her out of the ruins. “Dorian, I hope that’s you and not a Warden we missed taking me hostage.”

“None other, dear Grace. Let’s get you sheltered and stocked with potions.” In low soothing tones he talked to her about having seen similar reactions to Magisters who had gone into Seheron, the heat sapping the strength of those who worked primarily with winter-based spells. “Dehydration, despite the humidity of the place being strong enough to make you feel as though you’re fighting underwater. You’ll feel right as rain after a few particularly nasty draughts that Solas thoughtfully packed for you.”

“You’re a dear, and so is he, though the taste of his concoctions is...off-putting is not a strong enough word. Abysmally vile would be more apt.”

“Too true. Fortunately I’m not the one who has to sample his wares.” He pushed open the flap of the tent for her, and despite the heat trapped inside, the lack of sun made it immediately more palatable. “Now, lie down and do as the apothecary ordered. I refuse to deal with two angry enamoured men if anything happens to you. The Commander is bad enough, but the elf would have my head as well, and I’m rather fond of where it is at the moment.”

She didn’t have the strength to chuckle at Dorian’s absurd pretense of shallowness, merely reached out a hand for a bottle, and choked down the contents. The magic wound its way through her body, restoring her capacity to think and driving back the headache to a manageable level so that she could close her eyes without her pulse pounding behind her eyelids.

“Dorian?”

“Yes, dear one?”

“Adamant is going to be a nightmare, isn’t it?”

He sighed. “I could fill this tent with empty self-assurances and beautiful lies, but I have too much respect for you to tell you other than the truth. Yes. It’s going to be worse than anything we’ve encountered thus far. If all of the Orlesian Wardens have fallen under Corypheus’ sway then he has an army that is beholden to him, one that is arm in arm with demons. And they will go to their deaths believing that the sacrifice they think they’re making will save the land from another Blight.”

“How do we fight someone like that?” she asked, a note of fear in her voice.

“With every ounce of our courage, my friend, and with the army that you have raised around you. Between your deeds and the Commander’s skill at training, they are quite the formidable group of men and women who bear arms in your name.”

“In the Inquisition’s name, you mean,” she corrected.

“I know perfectly well what I meant,” he countered. “They may have joined the Inquisition, but they stay because of you, Rowan Lavellan.”

“I...thank you, Dorian.” She put out a hand in the semi-darkness of the tent and he took it. “You do seem to know what to say to bolster my faith in our cause.”

“It’s just the truth,” he said dismissively. “It’s easy enough to tell that. As long as you’re not asking who pilfered the last bottle of exclusive wine from the cellars beneath Skyhold. In that situation, the truth becomes much more...fluid.”

This time she did laugh, a weak sound, but it felt good to do so in spite of all of the carnage that was laying just a few dozen feet from the door of her tent. “On behalf of the Inquisition, please feel free to commandeer anything that isn’t strictly earmarked by our lady Ambassador. You’re worth a few bottles of wine, my friend.”

“Words near and dear to my heart. Your generosity is appreciated. Unnecessary as I was admittedly helping myself to the stores prior to your statement, but appreciated nonetheless.”

********

He didn't say anything when they left the Tevinter tower. He was more than quiet; he was the Stone the dwarves constantly cursed. 

She followed him to the oasis, and he dismounted, still silent, as he led his horse to the pond. She couldn't take it anymore. A quiet Varric was unusual, and this complete mute routine was unnatural. And it was miserably hot, and she was already chafed and bruised, which made her even more short-tempered. She made sure they were far enough away from the group so that she could scream at him in relative privacy. "What?" she barked at him as she approached.

He filled his canteen, not even turning around. "What what?"

He was doing this on purpose, playing dumb. "Why haven't you spoken to me since you got here? What the hell did I do that was so bad?"

He looked up at her briefly, his eyes the only way she could see the anger inside. "Nothing."

"You're not talking to me very loudly for someone who did nothing." 

"My apologies. I'll make sure that I have your permission to not talk the next time I want some solitude." Definitely mad. Enraged, even. He was being formal, which gave her chills. 

"Varric-"

"Just don't. " He took a swig of the water.

"Don't what? Talk? You love to talk. It's your own personal mission to use every word in every dictionary every day." She moved closer to him. "I don't smell...well, I may smell, but it's hot and miserable and I think I still have some leeway."

"Don't. Do. This." The words ground out of him. He was at a level of anger that humor wouldn’t touch, would actually make worse. "Just walk away, Marian."

Her eyes flashed. She had miscalculated, couldn’t solve this easily, and that pissed her off. "I haven't walked away from a fight since I was a child, Varric. I'm sure as hell not going to leave this one behind." She was infuriated now, her magic barely at bay, the feather-brush of flame stroking her skin, at the ready to blast out of her. "What the fuck is wrong?"

He spun on her, fast enough that she startled a fireball that fortunately landed harmlessly in the water behind them. "That," he growled as he stalked towards her. "You don't walk away. You never walk away. You throw yourself needlessly into every _fucking_ battle. You don't think. You just do. And the rest of us have to watch."

"What else am I supposed to do?" She was yelling; she was good at yelling. It seemed childish next to Varric's quiet menace, but it was all she had. "I'm built to fight, trained to fight. Hell, you _invited_ me to fight!" She stormed by him, heading to the water's edge for...something. Maybe to figure out a way to dunk his stubborn head under the water until he cried uncle. But he grabbed her as she pushed past him, and she glared down at his rock hard face. "Let me go."

"You want to have this out? This is me having it out." He released her arm, but pinned her with his gaze. "I brought you in to fight, to win. But not to die, and definitely not to sacrifice yourself under some stupid pretense of _fixing things_. You may not care about throwing your ass at a group of Wardens and their demon pets, but some of us would care if you're not here anymore." 

"It's my fault Corypheus-"

"Nugshit," he seethed. "You thought he was dead. I thought he was dead. He was dead. None of this is your fault.”

"Varric. I-"

"What? You didn't think? You don't care? I get that. I can live with that. But don't expect me to be _alright_ with that. You may be willing to throw your life away, but I can't watch you do it." He finally broke eye contact, looked back over the water, and his voice went flat, toneless. "So go, Hawke. Go wherever in the Void you want to go to kill yourself. But leave me out of it."

“No, damn it, I don’t want to die! I want the rest of you to fucking live! I want you to live, you stupid pint-sized dim-witted bronto-humper!” She was livid, to think he was acting like this because he thought she _enjoyed_ the idea of dying, of leaving him behind, of not telling him- “You know what? Just forget it, Tethras.”

“I can’t forget it, Marian. That’s what you don’t seem to be able to get through your stone-thick skull. For a decade I haven’t been able to _forget_ it. You go charging into battle, half-cocked, completely blinded with your magic and your bravado, and I have to stand back, aim Bianca, and hope to the Maker or whatever other deity there might be willing to look out for your stubborn ass that this time isn’t the one that ends up with you lying on the ground staring up at me while you leak out your life, my life, into the dirt. That maybe fate will hold on until the next round of-”

“Stop, just...stop, Varric!” Her voice was choked, cracking, as though she wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry. “You want to talk about this now, when we’re about to go off into Maker knows what kind of a shitstorm in Adamant, so that every second I’m in there I’m going to wonder if I’m doing this because it needs to be done or because I want to get a seat next to Andraste to watch how the world is going to end?” She straightened, took a breath, tried to calm herself, something she had almost no practice at. She typically raged until the fire went out. Tamping down the flames was...chafing. “We will have one of those sticky talks when we come out the other side of this. I will let you rant and rage at me. I will talk about...uncomfortable things.” Even dancing around the idea of a conversation of that nature had her wanting to run fast and far, but she held her ground. “I’ll even _listen_ to you. But I can’t do that now. If I hesitate while I’m in there, if we lose because I don’t give everything I have, that _will_ be my fault, and no amount of platitudes will help me feel differently while Thedas burns.” She was breathing deeply, chest heaving like some scene out of Swords and Shields. “Can we call a truce until then? Because despite your absolute bone deep stubbornness and your infuriating desire to apply _logic_ and _reason_ to things...you’re my best friend.” The tone softened, rounded at the edges, made all the heated words before dissipate like embers into the air.

Varric looked up at her, at the face that had changed his life, and was at a loss for words. “Well...shit, Hawke. You have to go and bring up something like that.” He steadied himself with a breath, too. “Yeah. Yeah, I can call a cease fire until after all of this.” His voice hardened again for a moment, brokering no argument. “But we _will_ be talking about this. All of it. Everything.”

She closed her eyes, hesitated for a moment. Nodded. “I know.”

He gave her a close approximation of his regular grin. “Good. Now let’s get out of the sun. I may be a surfacer dwarf, but even I have my limits.”

*********

As they came back to camp, Cassandra sat on one of the massive stones and watched the two of them approach over the dunes, each leading their mounts from the oasis. She studied them, the way she examined both friend and foe, to learn as much as possible from their body language. There was still a tenseness to the both of them, as though something remained unresolved, though the rigid distance between the pair had dissipated, so something close to their typical rhythm was established. 

She would never be able to write as Varric did, with words that made the heart soar and plummet with the flourish of a pen. She had no skill for giving voice to others, for making sentences come to life, jump off the page, grab you and hold onto you until you studied each nuance, felt sure you understood their meaning before you could move onto the next. 

And she would never be Hawke. Oh, if her life had taken a different path, if the Seekers hadn’t taken her in hand and curbed the worst of her bloodthirsty and impulsive behavior, then yes, perhaps she would be looking at a mirror image of herself in the mage. But the Maker had seen fit to lead her down a road where she could serve, but where her stubborn nature and quick temper, along with her fighting skills could be used to do the greatest amount of good for those around her. 

She pushed herself off of the rock, headed towards the Inquisitor’s tent. No, she would never be the Author or the Champion, but she was the Seeker, and in the end that suited her just fine. She didn’t strive for more, desire to serve in a higher capacity unless she was called upon to do so by those who felt she would be best suited. No, she was where she belonged, in the Inquisition, at the Herald’s side. As the Herald’s sword and shield, and as Rowan’s friend. It was enough, and she smiled very slightly as she pushed back the flap of the tent. 

“How are you faring, Inquisitor?” 

“Better now, despite my mouth feeling as though I’ve licked an unclean halla.” Rowan looked at her, waiting.

Dorian, who was still at the Herald’s side, was not so patient. “Well?”

“They’re still alive, and seem to be none the worse for wear, though in this sun, that’s difficult to judge.”

“But they seem to have resolved their differences for the time being?” The Herald’s voice was hopeful; having to deal with the added tension in her party on top of the fight that undoubtedly awaited them was a burden she wanted to avoid.

“Yes. They are at least mostly back to their normal selves. I think that there is still much left unsaid.”

“Which is impressive for people who talk as much as those two,” the Altus added dryly. “Some days I’m sure it’s a contest to see who has the largest word count by sundown.”

“Regardless, yes, there is once again harmony in your party, and we can move on at your leisure. I’ve dispatched all of the ravens detailing our findings and our recommendations for further troop movement. The Commander will undoubtedly get back to us soon with his location and suggestions.”

Rowan smiled. “Thank you, Cassandra. You are...I am very glad you’re here.”

The slight smile increased to something akin to an actual grin. “Despite the situation, so am I.”

“And that’s my cue to exit,” Dorian replied. “Seeker, you have Herald-sitting duties until we start our move. Make sure she drinks at least two more of those vile concoctions before you turn in for the evening.”

With that, he was gone, and the two women looked at each other, and the grin on the Herald’s face deepened. “Go ahead, read the next installment. I won’t tell. And I know you haven’t exactly had time.”

“What will you do?”

“Sleep. I’ll have little of that in the coming days, I should take advantage of the time I have to gather my strength.”

Cassandra’s hand brushed the pouch at her hip. “If you’re sure.”

“Completely.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t make me issue an order for you to enjoy a moment’s peace.”

She came to a decision, and took the low seat by Rowan’s cot before pulling out the next chapter in Varric’s romance serial. In moments, she was lost in the story, as the Inquisitor closed her eyes and embraced darkness while they waited for night to fall on the Approach.


	43. Shall I enter a land you never saw, though it was close to you like the other side of your senses?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words are spoken and unspoken. A hero falls and yet does not, and battle ensues.

Adamant stood, a crumbling horror of scorched stone and blasted earth that said disaster had struck, and not long ago.  They were far enough from the gates that she could only faintly make out the fires that said that the fortress was again occupied. 

 

Fate waited inside, along with an unknown number of Wardens that had made a pact with Corypheus; those who had been sworn to protect Thedas from the Blight had aligned themselves with one of those who had very likely brought the Darkspawn to their world.  Whether they knew specifically who their puppet master was...they knew that their manipulation of demons, the rampant use of blood magic with no safeguards, no thought for the consequences of their actions, only their desired endgame would end in disaster.

 

Her group had rendezvoused with the troops outside, with the rest of her companions.  They discussed what had been learned at the Western Approach, what Erimond had let slip before he ran like the coward he was, likely pulling the strings for Clarel as the assembled and planned their siege.  There were two people she needed to find, but a third found her before she could make her move.

 

“Dying, dark, demons...the Veil so thin, a mist, a dream, barely holding back the Fade.”  Cole’s hand tentatively brushed hers, hesitating to make contact, but needing the connection to reality. “I can’t...I don’t...there’s too much of what I was, I am.”  His eyes were wide, unfocused, as though he could see something in the wreckage of the once grand fortress that no one else could, ghosts of the disaster that happened within whose presence caused him to tremble.

 

“Cole, you don’t need to go in,” she said gently, resting her fingers over his, waiting for him to disappear as he always seemed to when contact became too much.  But she didn’t know how else to respond; touch conveyed more than words at times, and the spirit boy so often seemed lost when she tried to explain too much to him verbally.  “You can stay out here, stand-”

 

“No.  I belong...I want to help,  _ need _ to help.  With your brightness, it will keep the darkness back.” He seemed to try and straighten, a mimicry perhaps, or a memory from another to show that he was steadying his resolve.  “You keep me  _ here _ .”

 

Rowan wanted to say yes, wanted to keep him close, safe.  But she knew that her end was entirely possible, and then Cole would be stranded, without her as the guide he looked to. And an idea, a kernel of an idea, blossomed. He seemed to understand it as well as it came into her mind, and they nodded almost in tandem.  “Can you keep him safe for me?  In case...if anything happens, you can...talk to him.  You understand.”

 

“Yes.  Cullen has been kind to me, treats me like I’m real.  I’ll keep him real, too.  He could be lost in the darkness without your light, too.”

 

There was so much riding on her survival, but she had to consider the alternatives, had to constantly face her own possible death with every encounter.  They were all one swipe of a blade away from becoming just another note in history.

 

“You  _ are _ real, Cole. Never forget that.”  She squeezed his hand, and he very lightly squeezed back, before he disappeared between one breath and the next.  She wondered if perhaps it was easier for him to not have to deal with goodbyes.

 

She felt Solas’s presence rather than saw him, the attunement to his being attached to the talisman around her neck something she was far more aware of once she knew to look for it.  He sat on a rock, facing Adamant, eyes closed.  The muscles were tight around his temple, concentration or worry wrinkling the skin.  “Lethal’lan,” he said without opening his eyes.  “I was wondering when I would see you.”

 

“As soon as I could get away, ‘ma falon.”  She paused.  “I needed to find you, to know if you’ll come into the fortress with me, face whatever is going to be waiting on the other side.”

 

His eyes opened at that, head turning slowly towards her, his eyes always sad, always serious.  “There was never a doubt that I would be at your side.”  His words seemed to be weighed with more than just an affirmation of his accompaniment, but whatever it was quickly disappeared with his next statement.  “Are you ready for what’s possibly to come?”

 

“Wardens, demons, magisters in the service of Corypheus? It feels like it’s starting to become...almost normal for me now.”  She sighed. “Not that any of this could be considered ‘normal.’” 

 

“Normal is simply a matter of perspective.  I have seen both great and small in my travel, and it is all a part of the pattern of life and death.”  There was a pause.  “Though when one is in the midst of those events, it does not seem to be so much a pattern as a trial.  You seem tired, Lethal’lan.”

 

She started to shake her head, but she couldn’t lie to him. “Exhausted.  But I have to keep going. What choice do I have?”  She dropped her head, closed her eyes.  “I can rest when all of this is over.”

 

There was a touch on her cheek.  “You deserve rest, ‘ma falon.  You deserve more than the world you have fallen into.”

 

She smiled a little, opened her eyes again and met his, that fathomless sorrow staring back at her. His hand dropped away as if it had never been there. “What I deserve...it doesn’t matter.  I  _ need _ to keep you all safe.”  There was a stirring among the ranks, and her attention immediately drew to where the troops were gathering.  “Solas, I need to find-”

 

“Yes.”  His voice didn’t waver.  “The Commander should be readying his final battle plans in his tent.”

 

“Thank you, ha’haren.  I’ll be back shortly.”

 

“I will be waiting,” he said simply, evenly, and she didn’t see him clench his fist at his side as she turned to make her way through the throng of soldiers.

 

He was where Solas had said, speaking with his captains, and she waited at the door of his tent as he finished giving his directions. They all nodded to her in deference as they left, and she took a moment to study him before approaching.  “Commander.”

 

Cullen looked up from his plans. “Inquisi-Rowan, I-”

 

“I didn’t want to go in there without saying goodbye.”  The heat, combined with the breakneck speed at which they had been travelling, the lack of true rest for weeks, and the sheer emotional strain of so much death and misery happening around her were taking their toll.  Her shoulders ached with the need to stand tall in front of the rank and file.  Her head pounded from the amount of magic she had been expending, and she refused to drink lyrium to supplement it.  She didn’t want it to be a crutch when her powers were needed most.  And she was tired, as she had told Solas. Weary to her very bones.  Despite her efforts to be strong, the sight of him, knowing that she was leaving him behind,  _ again _ , caused her eyes to fill.  She didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to feel weak and needy and desperate. She hoped he didn’t see, that the shadows covered the shimmering drops that threatened. “We both….” She stopped, tried to hide the thickness in her voice. “We both know that I may not make it back from this.  It’s more than a rift, a few demons, a bear. So much more...so much worse.”

 

He came around the table. His hands, strong and calloused, cupped her cheeks, brushed away the tears that fell despite her best efforts. He didn’t say a word, just pulled her close as she buried her head in his shoulder, the fur of his collar pillowing her face. The scents of him made the tears fall harder, the blend of oil and metal, musk and moss, and a rich floral note all came together and said ‘Cullen’ to her in a way that nothing else could.

 

“Ar ame lath.”

 

Her head shot up off of his shoulder, eyes widening.  “You-”

 

His gold met her blue, and they shone in the semi-darkness.  “I love you, Rowan.” The words were simple, short, and quiet, but they rang as true in his tongue as they had been with his Ferelden accent in hers.

 

“How did...where….”  Sobs were making it hard to speak, and he had taken her breath away.

 

His smile was slight, self-effacing, and his skin darkened under her scrutiny.  “Dalish, after several rounds at the Herald’s Rest.  I tried to learn on my own, but there are a lack of elvhen language primers available.”

 

She choked, caught between laughing and crying, and did both as he again pulled her close, hands circling her waist, brushing his lips over hers lightly, before capturing them, tasting the salt of her tears as they drank deeply of one another. Her fingers tangled in the curls at the base of his neck, wanting desperately to hold onto the moment, to forget what was awaiting her outside, the blood and the danger and the terror that inevitably stood on the other side of the gates of Adamant.  She was home, and was loathe to leave the solace of his arms.

 

She broke away finally, reluctantly, mouths only a breath from one another.  “Cullen, I l-”  He quickly kissed her again, stopping her words, and then stepped back enough to meet her gaze.

 

“Tell me when you come back.  There are no goodbyes today.  There is a battle, and you  _ will  _ be victorious, and you may tell me...anything you like when you return.”  His voice barely trembled as he spoke, and she envied him the ability to keep a rein on his emotions as her heart wrenched with the bittersweetness of knowing she had to leave him, and the tears refused to abate.

 

But she tried, even as her hands rested against his skin, the warmth of him suffusing her, loathe to lose the contact.  She breathed deeply, remembering her obligations, her role, the need to put forth the visage of unflappable Inquisitor even as Rowan Lavellan floundered in the waves of emotions that besieged her.  “I promise you, I will,” she said, surprisingly even-toned.  With more self-control than she thought possible, she let him go, fingers sliding away from his neck, becoming once again Commander and Inquisitor.  “And are we ready for this battle that I’m to win, Commander?” she asked.

 

“As we’re going to be.  Trebuchets are primed and calibrated, the troops are ready to march at your word and my command, so as soon as you have your group assembled, we can begin the assault to give you access into the heart of the keep.”  

 

“Then let’s not waste any time.  The sooner we can end this, the closer we’ll be to finishing this war once and for all.”  She turned, but this time it was he who grasped her hand, a slightly pained look flashing across his face for just a second before he raised it and kissed her fingers briefly, closing his eyes as the velvet of his his lips tasted her skin once more.

 

“Maker go with you, Inquisitor,” he said over her hand, before slowly letting it go.

 

“And may He guide your steps, Commander,” she said, hurrying out before her eyes once again betrayed her and she lost the strength to turn from him and towards the fray.

 

\-------

 

The dragon roared above her.  There was nothing beautiful or majestic about the creature.  It was made of red lyrium and smelled of rot.  Its breath spewed death as they sped across the flagstones, trying to escape its reach as Clarel and Erimond battled, as the Warden bled out on the ground, her last act an attempt to stem the tide of the horror she had let loose upon the world with her hubris and fear.

 

And then the ground gave way, and she was scrambling, trying desperately to hold onto something, anything that would give her purchase, let her get back on solid ground, but she couldn’t outrun the crumbling edifice, and the world rushed towards her, the shouts of her companions, her friends, her  _ family _ behind her, all of them moving rapidly towards their death.   _ Andraste, Maker, Creators, don’t let it end like this, don’t let them die because of me, don’t make me lose him yet, pleasepleasepleasehelpme- _

 

Her left palm burst to life, green surrounded her, engulfed her in its ethereal glow, and then-nothing. 

 

\-------

 

It was the smell she noticed first. It seemed muted, as though she had a cold, or had pressed her face in a pillow. There was...fire? Water? It was impossible to tell. It was more.. the impression of smell. She knew there should be scents, but there wasn't anything she could identify.

 

She could hear the wind rushing around her, but it didn’t seem to move her hair; she couldn’t feel air brushing against her skin.  It was as though she was hearing something at a distance, an oncoming storm that never actually came.

 

She wasn’t sure if she opened her eyes or just suddenly became aware of her surroundings.  It was...madness.  Rowan couldn’t make actual sense of what she was seeing, at first it was just impressions of jagged rock, red glowing stone with the overlay of green masking everything with a sickly glow that made it all indistinct and transitory. Bit by bit her vision returned to her, allowing her to make out  _ that _ stone or  _ this _ carved outcropping. But most of what was around her seemed to be almost as though a careless hand had scraped out a hole in the earth, gouging it with its fingernails, leaving an open-air cavern behind exposed to-

 

“Oh, sweet Maker.”

 

The Black City hovered above her, closer than she could have thought possible. It  _ existed _ , she had always believed it had, but to see it in person, to recognize it for what it was...she was speechless.

 

And as she looked around her, as her eyes adjusted to what appeared to be constantly shifting landscapes, she started to make out more of the world she had apparently fallen into. Hints of ancient Tevinter mixed with Elvhen and Andrastean carvings, all telling conflicting stories that each seemed to have at least a glimmer of truth to them. Still largely unfocused, she began to orient herself by studying the pieces around her, trying to come to terms with exactly what she was seeing.  

 

The statues were oddly comforting in a place like the Fade, though they were strange themselves. Mythal was half-dragon, half woman, and all sarcasm as she stood with arms spread, maybe welcoming, maybe preparing to consume all within her line of sight.  Andraste was dressed in armor that looked like flames were consuming the metal...Rowan peered more closely at it, then reached out a tentative hand, fingertips tracing the whorls and arcs. This was...familiar. Why?

 

Someone approached her from behind, but with the sounds muffled, she didn't recognize the gait, and spun around, a blizzard forming in her hands.

 

"It is just me," Cassandra said, slightly chagrined. "I am sorry; I should have let you know."

 

The magic withdrew to a few flakes that drifted from her clenched hand. "No, it's fine...I just...my senses are muted here, and it has me on edge."

 

"We're in the fucking Fade, everything has me on edge," Hawke replied. Having found herself walking along the top of the world, she had taken to testing its limits, and was currently strolling sideways along the the rock face as she joined them.

 

"Knock that shit off, Marian," Varric said between clenched teeth.  She made a rude gesture at the dwarf, but climbed down to walk on the ground. 

 

"I know, the Fade and dwarves don't mix. Like Fenris and social mannerisms or Isabela and pants." Rowan watched the interplay, almost wanting to say something, to pull Hawke away and soothe Varric as well as she could, especially after their recent bout of fighting, but she hesitated, as she almost always did when it came to the other woman. And the jest paid off. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the worst of his tension, and smiled, if a little tightly.

 

"Or Daisy and common sense."  And the two of them were off and bantering, but Hawke stood at the ready over her companion, as though daring the Fade to test her resolve to keep him safe.  

 

Cassandra made a sound low in her throat. "Maker, I do not know how they can function the way that they do."

 

"I don’t think anyone can truly understand them; I don’t think they could explain it if you asked.  And speaking of asking, do you see Solas anywhere? I wanted to know if either of these statues looked famil-" a cracking noise broke her off and once again she gathered her magic to her like a cloak of ice before turning the corner to see what had happened.

 

A smoldering pile of rubble greeted her, Solas standing in front of whatever it had been, a truly feral and frightening look on his face that had Rowan pausing before approaching him. She hadn’t seen him that angry since his spirit friend had been corrupted. "What happened?" she asked softly. 

 

He visibly collected himself. "Another friend corrupted by this place. I had to eliminate it," he replied, voice taut and clipped.

 

"Rather violently it seems, too," she replied. "What was that?" She gestured to the pile of rock, still glowing green from his residual magic. A round piece rolled down out of the heap and past her, looking reminiscent of the orb that had caused the whole mess to begin with. The Fade saw fit to mock her, it seemed.

 

"Some strange corruption of one of the pantheon.  Andruil, I believe,  but with the oddities of the Fade, it is hard to be sure." He seemed less angst-ridden by this spirit's destruction than the one he had watched fade into nothingness before on their side of the Veil.  He actually seemed to be glowering at the area where the statue stood, as if offended by its presence.

 

“I thought you would be oddly more pleased to be in the Fade physically, ma’falon.”  She rested a tentative hand on his shoulder, and he leaned into it briefly before catching himself.  

 

“I should be; the Fade holds such wonders as I cannot begin to describe, but this corner of it, this pocket of a world, it is befouled by the spirit, the demon that dwells here.  It is a monster, and I can feel its malevolence.  These are dreams gone wrong.”  He began moving towards what appeared to be a small desk sitting in an alcove, candles sputtering, smokeless in the odd air.  A hand reached out to brush over the partially substantial surface.  “This should be a memory. Instead, it is a prison.”

 

_ You believe the world worth tearing asunder, Elvhen trickster? I have seen your mind and it is filled with horrors that I would love to strip away and feast upon.  Give them unto me and you shall be free of your bonds. _

 

The rumbling language sounded so very like her own Elvhen tongue, but she didn’t recognize a single world of it.  And yet Solas responded in kind.

 

_ I know what I must do and the burden I must bear.  You neither can nor will take that from me. _

 

_ We shall see how long your determination lasts, Prideful One.  How would it go if your Dalish love learned of the memories you stripped from her. Where I wish only to remove her fear, you have stolen far more, have you not?  How easy it would be to touch her mind and restore those moments, to have the veil ripped away _

 

_ You cannot return what you do not have, creature.  I pity you and your attempts to instill fear. _

 

_ They are not attempts, elf. You have not yet begun to know the Nightmare that awaits you. _

 

“What is it saying?” Rowan put a hand on his arm and he wanted to pull away, as though the contact could put back those thoughts he had taken. But beyond a tensing of muscle, he was still.

 

“It taunts my memories, my dreams. It wishes to know my deepest fears.” He paused. “It called itself Nightmare.”

 

\-------

 

Her mind was spinning with newly recovered memories, and with them, the pain and horror, the smell of death, the cries of the Divine as Corypheus rumbled in his maddening cadence that made her tremble with fear even now.

 

And that searing agony as her skin was ripped asunder and  the Fade itself implanted in her hand, giving her an unwanted key to lock and unlock heretofore unknown doors.  And then she was in...this same place, with a Divine not unlike the apparition that had appeared to them all, that had shaken Cassandra to her core, who had led her to take back the thoughts that had been eluding her since she had fallen out of the Breach.  

 

She didn’t know if she was better off having them back.  The knowledge that the Wardens had been in tandem with Corypheus since the beginning made her stomach churn.  Stroud looked ashen as the visions she regained were seen by all of her companions, and he recognized not only what they were, but who.  

 

“By the Maker, this is madness!” he cried as the scenes faded.  “How could Clarel, how could any of them believe that this was the way to solve the Blight? Were they blind?”

 

“Wardens have a bad habit of overextending their reach, Stroud,” Hawke said, voice tense and angry.  “Look at the fact that they had locked Corypheus away to study like a bug instead of destroying him.”

 

“Yes, and yet it only took one human mage to set him free.”  The Warden’s mustache bristled.  “You are not blameless in this either, Champion.”

 

“You want to start casting stones?  I’ll throw boulders in your direction, you hairy-lipped-”

 

“Enough!”  Rowan barked out, stepping between the two. “You two can fling blame at each other when we are _out of the fucking Fade._ ”  Her vision was swimming, tears threatened to overwhelm her, she was terrified, and she was _tired_. Exhausted to her very soul.  “But I cannot, no, I _will not_ listen to you bicker while we’re trying to escape from here.  Is that understood?”  Her tone left no room for argument.

 

Though Hawke wanted to. “I-” She caught herself, thought better of it.  “Fine. Later.” She glanced over at Stroud, eyes narrowed.  “Definitely.”

 

She nodded. “Good.  Because we’re going to need to be united to get past that creature up ahead. I’m sure it’s not letting us out of here without a fight.”

 

_ “Foolish little bare-faced elf.  You think that your words make a difference?  You destroyed the gift I gave to you. I will not be so kind as to grant it again.  Everyone you care about, including that broken Templar you cannot help but think of? They are merely a breath away from their inevitable deaths.  The Elder One will see to that.” _

 

“You talk too much, demon,” she said in reply, continuing to follow the glowing visage of the former Divine down the path that would hopefully lead to their salvation. “I’m planning on putting a stop to that.”

 

“Grace has some fire under the ice,” Varric said, sliding another bolt into place on Bianca.  “Been spending too much time with you, Hawke.”

 

“There’s no such thing as too much time with me. There’s none, and then there’s not enough.”

 

Stroud’s sudden cough sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but he covered it up quickly, the majority of the sound lost in the mustache. 

 

The final barrier came down, and the group turned as one to face their fears given form.

 

\-------

 

Keep the blade moving, never resting, don't get complacent, it's an extension of your arm, a part of you. Thrust hard, true, don't waste energy on pointless slashing. Deep, at any vulnerable point.

 

_ Shield up! _

 

A shudder down her arm as the Nightmare’s monstrous arm slammed against the metal that guarded her as she attacked, as important to defend, to keep herself alive.

 

In and out, bob and weave-

 

_ Your flank, girl!  _

 

Spin, avoid the slashing claws, let them screech against armor, the noise enough to make teeth grind and ears ring. But there's no wound, no blood drawn, so it's a victory, a small triumph in the midst of an endless fight.

 

Get in close, wait for it to be distracted by the spells the elves are throwing, the bolts that pierce its wretched wrinkled flesh from the dwarf. But don't let it touch them. You are the guardian, the one who keeps them safe, the one to take the blows, to suffer the pain. Thrust in, no, don't overreach, that costs you energy, an arm, a life.

 

_ Regroup. _

 

Breath shuddering, sweat running in cool rivulets down the back of her neck, beading on her forehead. Stroud continues his attack in earnest as she takes milliseconds to reexamine the battlefield, her enemy, looking for weaknesses, seeing none. Too tall to worry at its face, legs-

 

_ Yes. _

 

Run at the creature, its attention on the Warden, draw sword across body, slide its deadly blade across the heels of the demon, dark blood erupting, covering arm and shield and armor as it screams in pain. It turns intent on destroying the source of the agony, and shrieks again as metal punctures through its desiccated abdomen, Stroud taking advantage of the vulnerability to strike a blow.

 

_ Close. _

 

Injured, dying, but not yet defeated. The sword in its gut glows red as the Champion channels fire into the steel, baking it from the inside out. It's blinded by pain, trying in vain to escape the torment. And then,  _ then _ it exposes the spot she's been searching for.  

 

_ Be ready. _

 

Duck as it swings in her direction,  _ timing has to be perfect _ , hold the sword just so,  _ don't forget your training _ , and thrust up, hard and fast and deep as possible, the force of her will catching the monster under its breastbone, and she recognizes the moment the blade reaches its heart, the familiar stuttering moment between life and death as she strikes home and true, signalling the end of the Nightmare.   
  



	44. Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Üd' und leer das Meer.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adamant concludes.

They told him she was gone, and he didn't believe them. In the midst of battle, blood roaring in his ears, he was sure he had misheard. She couldn’t be  _ gone,  _ that simply wasn’t possible. He pulled his blade from the gullet of another Warden who had held the desperate look he had seen in too many maleficarum over the years. Something akin to a plea to understand the choice that they made despite the consequences. And he did, but it didn’t stop his blade, not when a demon had been tethered to that choice. "Repeat that, Corporal.”

 

“The lady Inquisitor.... Sir, there was a rift, and she is gone.”

 

The rushing sound of his pulse was no longer from the fight in front of him. Already the ranks off the resistant Wardens were lessening, falling to the blades of his soldiers, the spells of the allied mages, and the hands of their fellow members of the Order.  He could afford to let dread fill his gut.

 

“Show me.”

 

Stepping through corpses, slipping in the mud and blood of conflict, he looked up at the remains of the crumbling structure that had been part of Adamant’s outer wall. Debris dangled precariously from the crumbling edge, and stones littering the ground were stained with blood and other bodily fluids. But, “There are no bodies here, Soldier.”

 

“No, Commander. She and the others...they fell  _ into _ the Rift. And it closed behind them.”

 

_ Gone.  _ No. He refused to believe that he had lost her, not mere moments after screwing up the courage to tell her what had been in his heart for...longer than he could be sure. He'd known since the night he had held her as she told him of her clan and their betrayal. Of her loss.

 

_ Loss.  _ Despite countless deaths under his command, he had never truly suffered one. He just stared at the empty space in the air where the rift had been pointed out to him, and willed the garish green light to reappear, to spit her back out of the Fade’s clutches and into his life. 

 

But no. He was helpless, and there was no sudden tearful reunion. And something inside of him screamed at the realization that the smell of winter would no longer fill his nose as she came to see him, no eyes the color of sapphires would lock with his in amusement,  in anger, in concern.

 

_ In love. _ He had finally taken that step, and now he would never hear the words she wanted to say in return, that he had silenced because he thought he was doing the  _ right thing _ , encouraging her to stay strong, look forward, anticipate returning to them, to him.  And now….

 

“Stay with you if the light went dark, to keep you from following it.” Cole appeared at his elbow between one heartbeat and the next.  “I wanted to go with her, but she needed you safe, secure, solid...stay solid so you can find me without looking.”

 

He knew that the expression on his face was bereft.  The sorrow, the deep, lancing pain that made him want to fall to his knees and scream in agony was surely obvious for everyone to see.  Part of him didn’t believe that he wasn’t crying out to the Maker at that moment, begging Him to return his heart to his side.  But no, he was standing, ever the soldier, gripping the pommel of his sword with his hand so tightly that his fingers were numb.  It was the only outward sign of his despair.

 

“Is she-” Cullen’s voice came out rough, barely understandable, and he started again.  “She’s not here anymore?”  He cursed the plaintive tone in his voice.

 

The boy’s wide eyes stared up at him, almost searching for answers that neither seemed to have.  “It-she- _ Rowan _ ...I can’t see her brightness.”

 

A cry from inside the keep drew his attention from his own misery.  “I need to see what’s happening.  I cannot-”

 

“You’re the Lion who doesn’t sleep...she would want you to keep them safe.”

 

“Keep who safe?”

 

“All of them,” he replied simply, and made a gesture towards the ending battle.  It was obvious that the young man knew the mind of the Inquisitor as well as anyone in his own way.  She wouldn’t want him mourning if there was work to be done, if there were people who needed aid, protection. Without...without her, there was still the Inquisition, and its mission didn’t stop because one of them fell, no matter who it was.

 

_ Even if it was the woman who drove the shadows away with her light. _

 

A lifetime of grief could wait until Adamant was secure.  It had to.  She would expect no less of him, and he wouldn’t give less than his all to the Inquisition, to  _ her, _ even if she would never know the difference. He would.

 

It was hours into the recovery; he had lost track of time as he threw himself into work, getting the wounded tended, prisoners garrisoned, the names of the dead slowly gathered so that they would never be forgotten. The regimen had sustained him in previous times when his soul had been strained to the breaking point. Rules and regulations were simple, automatic, familiar, and he could continue to function even as his world fell apart.

 

The sudden crack, not unlike lightning, but separate and distinct had him turning from the corporal who had brought him the latest status report. “Maker,” the other man breathed, and Cullen silently echoed his sentiment as the very air seemed to rend and the green swirling light of the Fade poured forth.

 

And then a body came through. And another. He stopped counting as his mind screamed at him to move forward, to see, to let himself believe for a moment that he wouldn't have to live without-

 

“Shining, sure, strong.” Cole’s voice, relieved, was at his side. “But the sacrifice….”

 

\-------

 

They were home free, all they had to do was make a final run for the rift and-

 

“Why would it be that easy? Damn it!”

 

The creature split them off from one another, Cassandra and Solas having already gone through, and only Varric remaining on the side closest to the rift.  “Just blast some shit at it and run! You shoot fire at me all the time! What are you waiting for?”

 

The Champion locked eyes with him. “I’ll be right behind you, damn it! Go!”

 

“I’m not leaving you again, Hawke! Get the fuck out of here!” He was already bringing Bianca to bear on the spider-like demon.

 

“Would you two stop for once? Varric, go through now, tell them what’s happening!”  Rowan shouted to make herself heard over the noise of the Nightmare that was dividing them.  With a glance back to make sure he listened, which he did only reluctantly, she turned to the other two.  “Look, what if we-”

 

“I will stay,” Stroud said.  “The Wardens started this, a Warden must-”

 

“Help them rebuild!” Hawke interrupted.  “This is all my damn fault, let me take the fall-”

 

“Wait, what are you-” Rowan looked back and forth between the two.  Realization dawned suddenly. “Stroud….”

 

“Inquisitor, it has been an honor!” Stroud charged towards the spider-like Nightmare without hesitation.  He didn’t even see the leg that swept him into the rocks head-first, his skull making a sickening crack as he hit the stone.  

 

“Oh shit,” Hawke said, and looked back at Rowan.  “Lavellan, go. Tell Varric I-” she stopped, knowing time was of the essence, knowing there was too much left unsaid, undone.  “Tell him I know. And I do, too. And if he thinks I’m saying sorry, he’s out of his fucking mind.”  She pushed the Inquisitor toward the Rift before sending a shaft of fire towards the monster.  “Maker damned spiders.  I know the little ones don’t like the heat, how about you?”

 

For the second time in her life, Rowan stumbled out of a rift and back into Thedas, but this time she had the burden of knowing she had left people behind both times.  With a snap, she pulled the cut in reality shut, and then fell to her knees, grief overwhelming her.  “Again...not again. I can’t….”  Tears filled her eyes, and she scanned the crowd for him, the other one who would feel the pain as deeply as she.  Moreso. 

 

“Where’s Hawke?”  The hesitation, the slight cracking in his voice.  It broke her, sent the moisture streaming down her face, and he saw, and he knew, but he had to ask again, just to be sure. “Where’s Hawke?”

 

“I didn’t...I couldn’t…I wasn’t strong enough.” She didn’t care if the entire world saw it as weakness, it didn’t concern her in the slightest.  All that mattered was the pain of losing someone else she loved, to see that loss echoed and amplified in the sherry-colored eyes of another who held a piece of her heart. And she could do  _ nothing _ .  There were no words, there was no comfort to give or take.  All there was, was the hole where someone once dwelt, ripped out of her chest and left open and bleeding, a wound for the world to see.

 

And the dwarf across from her had one twice as large and infinitely as deep.  Through the haze of her own misery, she saw his eyes burn with the intensity of his bereavement, and then suddenly go flat, as though his soul had fled and all that was left was an animated body.  “Well….”  He turned without another word, and left her on the dais, alone, despite the mass of bodies around her.

 

In the distance she thought she heard Cassandra try and extend some words of comfort, but if there was a response, it was so low that she didn’t hear it.  There was a tentative touch on her arm.  “Inquisitor, is Warden Stroud…?” She shook her head, sobs forming anew as she knew her defeat was total at the hands of Corypheus.  It didn’t matter if they won the war on the ground; in her heart, she was already shattered.  Someone she could have considered almost a sister had she but time enough to finish forming the bond was gone.  A heroic Warden, who stood up to the entire assembled host of the Grey for the sake of what was right...he was gone, too, separated from life in a second, and all because she wasn’t fast enough, worthy enough...it was all her fault.  There was no succor to be found.

 

And with that cold thought running through her mind, she found the strength to stand. The tears dried against her cheeks as the hot wind from the Approach helped to pull away the moisture; it left behind dried trails of salt on her skin, not unlike a vallaslin, marking her enslavement to her failures.  “You Wardens...you are with the Inquisition now.  Whatever else you may have done...we need you to defeat the archdemon if this is a Blight.  I will...withhold judgement until after the Elder One is dealt with.”  There was a disturbance among her companions.  “This must be done.  There is no other choice to be made.”

 

“As you wish, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said after a moment.

 

“This is most unwise.  I urge you to-” She cut Solas off with a look.  

 

“There is no debate.  Your objection is noted, but the security of Thedas must come before what rests most easily on your mind, ha’hren,” she replied, her voice stony.  He remained silent, but his eyes burned her skin with barely checked anger.

 

She looked around at the assemblage.  “Let us leave this place. It’s not meant for the living.” Stepping down, she strode toward the exit, refusing to look back at where she had sealed her friend into the Fade, condemning her to death as surely as if she had wielded the headsman’s axe herself.

 

\-------

 

The return to the keep was silent and mournful.  She spoke to almost no one, and even Cullen had somewhat kept his distance her when she repeatedly spurned his overtures of comfort.  She didn’t deserve comfort; she should have stayed the stony mask of Inquisitor before her heart could be torn asunder by the choices she did and didn’t make, the people she lost, the ones she couldn’t save. The pain was staggering, but she took it all in and made it her own, her punishment for being too weak to protect them all with her mantle.  Solas had just looked at her reproachfully from time to time; her rebuke of him in front of so many others didn’t sit well with him, and while she understood his frustration, she couldn’t accept his questioning of her decisions, not when the choice had been so clear.  Even amidst all of the emotional turmoil, she knew the Wardens had to stay.  To exile them would have been the kneejerk reaction that Corypheus would want, and she wouldn’t, couldn’t hand him any more victories.

 

Varric didn’t return to Skyhold with the rest of the group.  It was almost a month after they had settled back into a much more subdued routine before she saw him again, and she almost didn’t recognize him. He had lost weight, and the past few weeks had taken its toll. He looked older, burdened by life, as though the very air was too heavy for him, and he had started to hunch slightly.  But it was his face that truly scared her.  

 

There was nothing.

 

Oh, all of the features were in the right place, but there was no life, none of the vitality that marked him as Varric Tethras, Merchant Prince and weaver of tales.  He was a husk, empty inside. Looking into his eyes was like staring into the Void, and it was more frightening than anything she had encountered in the Fade.

 

“Varric?”

 

“Inquisitor,” he said dully, walking up the stone steps to the top floors of the Rest where she stood, his eyes fixed on her, but not truly seeing.  “I’ve come to get my things.”

 

“You’re leaving? You don’t have to, I-” She wanted to throw her arms around him, pull him to her, tell him that they could suffer together, try and heal together, but the emptiness surrounding him stilled her.  

 

“The stories are over.  I have other work to do.” Again, flat, toneless, worse than the Tranquil who seemed to keep an echo of their emotions, if only that, the slightest of intonations to differentiate words.  There was nothing but a rhythmic staccato of syllables to what he said.

 

“Where are you going? Do you want-”

 

“The seat on the Guild needs my attention.  I’m going to take care of that, make money for the Tethras name. My adventuring days are done.”  He walked past her, into the rooms he had chosen for himself, and she followed, shocked at the new blow that she had to absorb. Rowan had known he would grieve, would mourn, but she ultimately thought that he would return, absolutely changed, but still Varric. The Champion’s impact on his life was so profound that her loss seemed to kill something within him, it blew out the spark of his creativity, his wit, his very self.

 

He gathered up his possessions wordlessly, another core-deep difference between the man she had known and the one that stood before her. Silence from Varric was...unheard of. At least not this bone-deep stillness that didn’t have the potential to suddenly burst into narrative.  She was lost, floundering, desperate to see something of her friend in this...person.  “Varric, I’m sorry.” The tears she had thought were long dried up from weeks of crying came flooding back. “I am so sorry  that I couldn’t save her, couldn’t bring her back to you.”  She reached out for him at last, touching his shoulder, and he looked up as if he hadn’t noticed she was there.

 

“Why are you sorry?” His voice was still empty, only the word ‘why’ letting her know it was a question. “You didn’t kill Hawke.  I know.  She chose.  She stayed  _ behind _ .”  There was the barest hint of...something at the word behind, an echo of an emotion, a hint of feeling.  “She didn’t want to come back.”

 

“Oh, Maker and Creators, oh Varric. She said...she said she knew, and she did too, and that...that she wasn’t going to say that she was sorry.”  And there, the flash, the little flame of something that meant he was still alive, somewhere deep inside, or could be if she could just find a way to stoke the fire, bring it back.

 

“She knew.  And she…still stayed.” And it was gone again, like someone took a deep breath and blew away the last possible ember.  “It doesn’t matter.  Not anymore.”  The stranger had returned, and she didn’t think that Varric, her Varric, was left inside.  

 

“You don’t have to leave. There’s a place for you here, if you want it.”

 

He shook his head, a barely perceptible movement. “No.  There’s nothing here.”  

 

Her heart actually hurt, and she rubbed the area over her breastbone, hoping the pain would ease.  “Where will you go?” she asked.

 

“Kirkwall. I’ll take my seat in the Guild, do what I should have done all along.”

 

“Varric….”  There were no words left. She knew she had lost him; the minute Hawke charged at the monster in the Fade, she had lost both of them.

 

“It’s time to go,” he said tonelessly, and headed for the door.

 

She couldn’t stop herself, if only for the sake of who he once was she grabbed him, pulled him into an embrace.  His arms stayed by his side, he showed no reaction to her touch.  “Please, take care of yourself.  And forgive her,” she whispered, choking on the words.

 

“She’s dead. Who do I forgive?” He pulled away, walked past her, and headed for the doorway, but stopped when he reached it, and turned. “Thanks, Grace,” he said at last, and their eyes met one last time, and she saw the raw pain and anger and turmoil that dwelt beneath.  She gasped in horror at the ravages of his grief, but the wall slammed down again, and he was gone.

 

\-------

 

He stepped onto the cobblestones and looked around, the hole where his heart should have been throbbing painfully, causing him to stumble forward until a steady hand caught his arm. “Varric,” the Seeker intoned, and he looked up at her.

 

“Did you-what in Andraste’s ample ass was that?”

 

“Our greatest fear, I believe,” she said.  He looked at her, and her eyes had a strained, haunted look that hadn’t been there, even when they were running for their lives in the Fade.  

 

“Did you see-”

 

“No. I saw only my own, and that was bad enough.”

 

“Where are the others?  When I left, that Nightmare was blocking their exit.”

 

“They have not come through yet.  I...do not know if they will be able to get-” At that moment the rift seemed to shift, and Rowan came tumbling out.  A crowd pressed forward to help her up, and Varric’s view was blocked.  Nonetheless, he pushed through just as she turned and closed the rift, and fell to her knees, exactly like he had just seen.  The tears and the grief etched on her face were real, too.

 

“No. No, fucking no, not again, I already did this once, no, you hear me, Maker?” he intoned as he finally made his way to her.  She saw the loss, and he feared as never before, and he prayed between one word and the next, “Where’s Hawke?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke wouldn't have it any other way.


	45. Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone deserves to be remembered.
> 
> My thanks to [Dissatisfied Doodles](http://dissatisfied-doodles.tumblr.com/) for checking my Fr-I mean Orlesian for me.

She sat at the back of the Rest, a tankard in hand that was larger than what many humans would consider sufficient for ale. In front of her sat a sheaf of parchment, half darkened with notes, half still untouched ivory. A quill was poised in her hand, inkwell within easy reach, and the little dish of blotting sand at the ready for the moment she set memory to history.

That was how he found her, frame hunched over the work that sat ready to continue, a diminutive testament to reflection. Sadness called to sadness, and he thought absently that the almost tangible grief set his steps in her direction. There was kinship in misery.

“Scout Harding,” he said gruffly, his voice expressing as much sympathy as he thought was appropriate, but not enough to reach the point where it sounded insincere. She looked up at the intrusion, eyes sunken with lack of sleep and red-rimmed from what he suspected were tears when there was no one around to see the strong woman fall.

“Warden Blackwall. How can I help you?” Her voice, normally lilting with a hint of sarcasm, was thick with suppressed emotion.  

“I thought you might prefer some company, or perhaps just an ear,” he replied, tone carefully neutral.

“I-” she looked down at the papers in front of her, and shuffled them slightly with her fingers, spreading them apart and pushing them together. Finally, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.  “Yes, alright.  I’d...like that.”

He signaled the bartender for a tankard, and sat across from the dwarf.  He was a patient man; a life like the one he led had taught him to be.  That, and so many other damnable lessons, most learned because of his own folly.  He took a sip when his drink arrived, watched and waited as she continued her unconscious movements of the papers.  He could make out a few words even upside down, a steady hand making notes about what had occurred in the Western Approach. Her hand.  Farther down, a slight tremble made the letters waver.  Suspicious dots peppered the area, and the writing stopped abruptly.

“I told him he was like a Mabari,” she started, and that surprised him enough to pause mid-sip.  “Stubborn.  Dedicated.  Loyal.” There was a tremor to her voice, and she swallowed hard to clear her throat, taking a drink before continuing.  “Committed to the Grey.  Not like you.”  He opened his mouth to say something, to deny her accusation, but she continued.  “Not like any Warden I’ve met, and because of the Blight, I’ve met a few.  He  _ was  _ the Wardens, in their truest form.  He lived the motto day in and day out.”

“An honorable man, to be sure,” he replied, his words ringing hollow to his ears, mocking his own charade, shining a light on his lies and failings.

Lace smiled slightly.  “And that mustache...the facial hair...is that actually a secret part of Warden training, serrah?” 

“It’s an elite level,” he said dryly. “Only a select few are welcomed into the group, and fewer still have the dedication to continue their devotion year after year.”

She choked on a laugh, and it was enough to let her guard down, for her eyes to fill with the tears she had been holding onto as tightly as a leash on a wild animal.  “He would have liked you; you share the same sense of humor.  Wry, deadpan.”

His lies tripped out, old friends that he kept at the ready.  “Yes. I am sorry that our paths didn’t cross.”  That wasn’t as far from the truth as he thought it would be.  He had felt for a while that there would be a certain relief in finally coming clean, of being discovered as the fraud he was. But those were the thoughts of a stronger man than he. “You knew him well, then?”

She shook her head. “Not as well as I would have liked, not well at all, but perhaps I knew him better than anyone else in Thedas.” She looked up, met his eyes, and the barren expression made his false heart crack.  “He had no one. His life was his uniform and his mission.  His family...they were….”

“Victims of Orlais.” He knew the Game, only too well.

“Yeah.”  She sniffed slightly, tried to hide it in another swallow from her mug, gathered her composure as best she could.  “I told him once everything was finished in Adamant, we would sit here and have a drink.  We weren’t friends, but we could have been.  And somehow that seems worse.”

He gestured to the papers.  “And those?” Harding seemed willing to talk, and he wanted to listen, needed to know that there were people in the world like her, like Stroud, that he hadn’t destroyed all of the honor in Thedas with his cowardice.  It was a just punishment, he thought, to hear about a person he could never hope to be.

She stared down at them, almost looking through the words on the page.  “My reports from the Approach. I thought they would be the same as always.  He’s not my first loss, he won’t be my last.  That’s the way war is, right?”  Her finger traced one of those circular discolorations.  “But it seems so damn unfair.  I don’t even have someone to write to, to tell them that he’s gone, that he gave his life for...all of us, really.”  One of the tears that threatened finally broke loose, and slid down her cheek, adding another bit of emotional punctuation to her work as it hit the parchment.  Violently she shook her head, as if to fight them back through sheer will and determination. “I need another drink.”

He signaled for another round, even though he had barely touched his own tankard.  “I’ve seen enough loss to know if it doesn’t affect you, you’re beyond saving. I’m an old soldier, and each one is still brutal. Don’t be sorry you mourn, Harding. He’s got someone to remember him that way, even though you’re not blood.  You were comrades, and sometimes that’s better.”

“They must teach these life lessons in Warden school,” she said, not bothering to hide her sniff this time.  “That’s the kind of thing he’d say, too.  Once I got him talking, he was a font of anecdotes and war stories.  Oh, he’d pretend to be silent as a rock, but around the fire at night, he had to take his turn at a tale. And you  _ listened _ , because every word he said sounded important, had weight to it.  Despite what they did, despite the fact that it...killed him, I’m glad the Inquisitor kept the Wardens.  Because somewhere in them is the same heart that Stroud had, and we could use more of those.”  Her eyes widened.  “Not to say that you don’t have that too, Warden Blackwall-”

He put his hands up.  “Compared to Stroud, I am no kind of Warden.” He almost choked on the veracity of those words, half expected someone to agree with him and clap him in irons, but of course nothing happened and he continued.  “Possibly some good will come from his sacrifice.  He was the Warden that we all should be: the one who follows the motto and doesn’t look for shortcuts like Clarel and her lot did. It’s what being a part of the Order is.”

She was quiet for a long moment; the next round of beers came, and she absently grabbed hers, resting the lip of the tankard against her mouth, not drinking, lost in thought.  “When I file this report, the book is closed on him.  That’s the end.  I’ll remember him, and Varric will, maybe a few others...but he’ll get lost like so many, another nameless face that did something good at some point. I don’t want him to disappear. It seems...wrong.”

“You can ask for a memorial service for him.  I’m sure no one would object.”

“Yes, I suppose.”  It seemed like too little; he could tell from the expression on her face.  Thinking for a moment, he considered a more permanent solution, and inspiration struck.  

“If you come with me, I think I have an idea.”  He watched and waited as she internally debated the pros and cons; Scout Harding was proficient at many things, but she could never have played Wicked Grace.  Every thought she had showed up on her face.  She nodded at last, putting down the tankard and gathering her papers.  The supplies belonged to the bar, courtesy of Cabot, so she left them and followed him up to the keep.

He gestured at his idea, and she laughed again, the sound filling the empty keep with the happy noise.  “Are you sure this won’t offend the Orlesians?”

“He wasn’t an Orlesian any longer; he was a Warden. Everything else was the past he left behind.”  If only he could leave his own behind.

“Then this is perfect.  Thank you, Blackwall.”

“My pleasure, my lady.”

Within a week, a plaque had been commissioned and delivered to Skyhold.  On it was inscribed:  _ Jean-Marc Stroud. Grey Warden. Hero.  In Death, Sacrifice.  _ _ Votre pilosité faciale ne sera jamais oublié. _  It was installed on one of the Mabari statues alongside the Inquisitor's throne, and Harding smiled as it was put into place, where it would be seen by anyone who entered, and his name would live on as long as Skyhold stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chronologically direct followup to this chapter is over in my Hawke & Varric one shots, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4207221/chapters/13327555), but while it's part of the story, it doesn't quite belong in the flow of things.


	46. There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mourning, comfort, and necessary revelations...loss causes complexity that only love can hope to match.

She stared at the contents of her chambers. They had always been too opulent for her, too grand for someone as used to bare minimums as she had been. But agreeing to them had made Josephine happy. And bit by bit she had made them her own, filled them with small things that made the rooms into a place where she could live, not just lay her head at night. She could almost believe that divine intervention had intended for her to be where she was.

Until Adamant.

Until she knew that the moments she had almost believed she was special, destined, fated for something more than mere existence had been just a silly little Dalish deluding herself into thinking she was special. That she was worth more than the ridicule and abuse that had defined so much of her life before the Conclave. That the hopes her father had for her weren't in vain.

The Nightmare had been right about her. She was nothing. A joke. A fool. 

She had watched her friend sacrifice herself,  _ let _ her give herself over to a demon so that she could escape. Because supposedly the life of the Inquisitor was worth more than Marian Hawke, more than a woman who had spent her existence fighting for and protecting those around her. 

“How is this fair? How is this right?” She looked up at the stained glass, etched with the symbols of Andraste, mixed with the stylized motifs of the Creators, beings she had put so much faith in, poured her belief into.. “How can this be what you want?” Her voice was strained with misery, thick with unshed tears. 

There was no answer. She wanted one. Needed it. Needed to know why she got to live and Hawke had to die and Varric had to exist alone with the loss of a part of his soul.

“Varric….”  She hadn’t been able to talk to him, couldn’t bear the haunted look in his eyes after that moment coming out of the Rift where she shattered his heart. She saw the moment it broke, and the agony at knowing it was  _ her fault _ had her doubling over on the flagstones, holding herself tightly, gasping for air, despair and rage and self-loathing battling for dominance in her mind.

“Inquisitor.” The voice broke through the haze of her inadequacy. Looking up, Cullen had been by her side, her Commander standing guard, unworthy as she was of his protection and dedication. 

Unworthy of his love.

“Inquisitor, we must decide what's to be done with the Wardens.” His voice was not unkind, and his eyes showed more than his words. She wanted to lose herself in his arms, wanted to run away far and fast so that no harm could befall him. He put out a hand, and she looked after Varric’s form, as he had become lost in the crowd, before allowing him to help her stand.

“I don’t….” And then she stopped, the anger in her at what happened turning the very air around her frigid even in the heat of the Approach.  “No, I take that back.  I know.”  She turned to the crowd that was assembled around her.

“Wardens of Orlais. You have broken your oaths, broken the trust the people had in you.  Your fellow Wardens will be notified of your betrayal.  Pray you find redemption elsewhere, for you will not find it with me.”  Her voice was as cold as a winter’s night, empty of emotion, refusing any argument. “You are the catalyst of countless losses, endless grief, and so you will, in retribution for your deeds, serve the Inquisition.” There was a rumbling throughout the people, but she continued, uncaring of public opinion.  “You wish to show contrition? You will do so under the eye of those who were able to stem the tide of your corruption and descent into madness.  If this does not suit you, I have no reservations about banishing you from Orlais, from Ferelden.”  She paused, looked over the group of the the Grey that stood, waiting for her final judgement.  “And I warn you now; if you fail in your charged duty to us, punishment will be swift...and permanent.”  In the torn edges of her heart, the ragged area that clamored for revenge, she wished to send them all into the Abyssal Rift with nothing but the clothes on their back. But mercy, however metered, was the only way to provide a chance at redemption for the men and women who had lost themselves to fear and folly.

And their banishment wouldn’t bring them back. Wouldn’t heal the aching loss she felt, or the guilt.  Wouldn’t make their deaths, or the pain of those left behind any easier to bear.

She put her head in her hands and sagged, sad beyond tears. There was no more strength in her, no fight, no desire to go any further in the uphill and unending battle against Corypheus.  Despair was steadily insinuating itself into her mind, eating away at ambition and confidence, helping her forget her reason to continue. She was tired, so tired. 

The knock at the door went unacknowledged. She couldn't face anyone, not bearing the weight of so many failures. There were no answers to give anyone, no solutions to the remaining problems. They had stolen the Elder One's demon army, but what did that matter? He would just find another way to try and rip open the Veil, and she would chase after, essentially putting out fires, always a step behind, too la-

“Grace. Knock this shit off.”

Slowly she lifted her head and looked over at the dwarf. “Varric,” she managed, voice barely above a croak.

“I spent enough time with one woman who blamed herself for every single problem in the world.” He moved to stand in front of her. She could see his eyes were bloodshot, and he was unshaven, clothes rumpled, but his expression held the same attitude she had seen so many times when he was dealing with Hawke. “I'm not about to let you wallow in guilt, too.”

“But she's  _ gone, _ Varric, and it's my fault!” Her hands clenched tightly, and she could feel her magic just under the skin, threatening to spill out of her in a torrent of ice.

“Nugshit.” His mouth was drawn in a line.  “No one  _ makes _ Marian Hawke do a fucking thing, including die.” He had to stop, she could see the struggle before he continued. “She made her own choice. Now you've got to make yours. And one of them damn well better be to knock that blight-soaked son of a bitch back into the Black City.”

Rowan blinked, staring at her friend. “How can you not blame me for all of this? I should have-”

“You should have survived, Grace, which is what you did. Heroes live on borrowed time from the minute they're created.” His voice turned strained. “At least that’s what I've been telling myself since we left Adamant. Before then, really.”

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take. If Hawke can...what chance do any of us have?”

“A damn good one. The fact that we came out of the  _ Fade _ with any of us alive at all is a win.” He smiled humorlessly. “And if I don't think that way, she'll come back and haunt me for the rest of eternity.” He pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket and handed it to her. “She essentially said so.”

Rowan took the sheet, and glanced down at the scrawled missive. “What is....?”

“I found it in a copy of Swords and Shields. Go ahead. She may have meant it for me, but it applies.”

 

_ V- _

_ If you find this, you're going to be mad enough to kill me, mostly because I'm already dead.  _

_ Yes, dead. Gone with the Maker. No more. Ceased to be. _

_ And no, it's not that I'm going out looking for it, but I'm not stupid, current state of being notwithstanding. I've had enough close calls to see the possibility coming. _

_ So let’s cut to the chase. I don’t want to leave you behind. If you don't know what that means, you're stupider than I thought was actually possible. _

_ And don't turn into one of your tragic heroes, either. They’re horribly cliche. You have a job to do, and Lavellan needs you. She's going to blame herself; I ought to know. Tell her what you and I both know, that there's no chance in the Void this is her fault. _

_ Don't cry for me. I've seen dwarves cry, and it's an ugly thing. No one needs to see that, and that's one thing I refuse to be held responsible for. _

_ Just keep going, keep living. Keep being the obnoxious pain in the ass I know.. Try to do anything else and I will find a way back and kick your ass all the way to Orzammar. Yes. I will banish you underground. With no parchment and no quills. _

_ Destroy Corypheus once and for all, and I'll see you at some point on the other side of living. You have to collect those five sovereigns I owe you. _

_ -M _

 

Rowan looked up at him. “I thought it was ten,” she said, voice wavering with emotion.

“It is. She's still trying to get my ass.”  He put out his hand and she handed the letter back to him. He folded it carefully, and slid the parchment into the breast pocket of his duster, fingers resting against its inevitably permanent home over his heart. There was a moment of silence before he put out his hand again. “Alright, Grace. It's time to do what she said. We'll face down the bastard. He has more to answer for than before. A lot more.”

Tentatively she put her hand in his, still not entirely believing he didn't hold her accountable. But his strong fingers wrapped around hers, and he tugged her to her feet. “Where are we going?”

“First, you go see Curly, assure him you're still alive. He's been practically chewing the furniture, but he wanted to give you time. Turns out I'm less patient than he is.” A shadow of his old grin crossed his face. “Next, I think that Witch you picked up in Halamshiral has some news on where to go next.”

She looked down at him. “How in the...how do you know that?”

Varric shrugged. “I hear things. And her kid likes stories. Especially ones about the Champion.” His voice barely wavered on the word. “Third...well, third is we save the world.”  They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and he let go of her hand. “Remember, Grace. You have a job to do, but more than that, you have a life to live. Don't give that up. She wouldn't want that. In fact, she'd be pissed.”

Rowan reached out instinctively.  The difference in height made it so that her hands rested on his shoulders, his head ending up on her collarbone, and she felt the slight tremor in him, emotion contained with the greatest of restraint, threatening to spill over with the right provocation.  He didn't resist; part of him wanted the comfort, no matter how he tried to deny it. “I'm sorry, Varric. I'm so  _ damn _ sorry.”

He put his arms around her waist, couldn’t help but take in the crisp scent of winter that always seemed to belong to her, so different from Hawke and the heady breath of woodsmoke that reminded him of the flame that always dwelt right beneath the surface- _ had _ dwelt…. He closed his eyes to deny the moisture that gathered there. “So am I, Rowan.” 

The lost sound of his voice, the use of her real name...she gulped air to keep from crying, did everything to fight it. She had shed too many tears already, and Hawke would burn her for letting any more fall for her sake.

Slowly, she let go, as did he, and they looked at each other, twin expressions of grim determination on their faces.

“I have letters to write. You have an ex-Templar to soothe. Go on. If he lets you out of his sight, stop by for a drink tonight in my rooms. I'd say at the Rest, but I'm not up for that much inebriated sympathy yet.” He pushed her gently out the door. 

“Alright. Thanks, Varric.”

“Anytime, Grace.”

 

\------

 

She didn’t stop to talk to anyone. She sped through Solas’ rotunda, putting up a hand as he tried to stop her, to engage her, stopping his words with a shake of her head as she carried on.  He would want to talk, to reexamine every second of what had happened in that miserable green place, and she had no desire to revisit there, not then, not ever if the truth was to be known.  The aftermath was hard enough to accept.  The reality of what they had lived through would devour her in her current state.

By the time she reached his office, the cold air had her lungs burning, making her feel at least marginally alive again. The door was open, and she didn't hesitate before stepping through. She didn’t realize how much she needed to see him, to tell him-

“I love you.” 

He looked up from his desk, the shadows deep under his eyes, face taut with strain. He stared at her as though he wasn't entirely sure she was there. “Again, please,” he said tightly.

She moved into the room. “I love you, Cullen Rutherford.” He hadn’t moved from his place standing over his papers. “I-”

“I was worried,” he said quietly, “but I wanted to give you room, time to mourn.” Slowly he lifted his hands from the table, where they had been resting, supporting him in his exhaustion. “I thought I might have lost you again. I fear that I'll wake up from this moment and you'll still be in the Fade.” He glanced at the box on the table, a recurring temptation, a constant reminder. “Please, tell me once more.”

She stood beside him, placed her fingers on his cheek so that she could meet his eyes, tired and pained, but with hope lingering in their depths. “I love you. So much my heart aches. Maker, Cullen, I should have come to you, shouldn't have hidden away. It was selfish and thoughtless and-”

“Hush,” he said, cutting her off mid-apology, drawing her hands into his, tethering them together with entwined fingers. “You’re here now. That's what matters,” he said roughly. “ _ You  _ are what matters.” Cullen pulled her into his arms, resting his lips against her hair, breathing in deeply. “I wish I knew what to say to take your pain away.”

“I need to feel this.” She let herself sink into the comfort of his embrace. “She deserves to be mourned. They both do. Stroud was a true Warden.  And Hawke was my friend. My  _ friend.  _ I didn't know what that meant until I came here. And now she's gone. And Varric...I know he's dying inside.”

“He's suffering, but he, like you, isn’t alone.” He wanted to continue standing, to hold her indefinitely, but the stress of withdrawal and worry combined with the lack of rest were taking their toll, and he could feel the unsteadiness in his legs.  Reluctantly releasing her, Cullen pulled his chair over to them, and sank down on it, pulling her with him. With her in his lap, their faces were level, and he captured her gaze. “The Inquisition has created support for its people, Varric included. He needs time.”  He brushed the errant locks of hair from her face, tucked them gently behind her ear.  “And you need to remember that the reason the Inquisition has come so far is because of you.  Because of success, not failure. Because of perseverance. Because you haven’t given up, no matter what’s been thrown at you.  And that is a true gift.”

She let her head drop, her own exhaustion apparent, and leaned against him, letting the strain pull her down into unconsciousness. “Mmm,” she said, her voice drowsy, and he could tell that she was drifting off to sleep.  He rested his head against the chair, and fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.  

The doors to his office were locked by a silent hand, and as they day went on, those who wished to see the Commander or the Inquisitor found themselves realizing that their business could be attended to on a different day, as neither could be disturbed.  They couldn’t quite remember  _ how _ they knew this, but someone had told them….


	47. ‘In the burrows of the Nightmare/Where Justice naked is,/Time watches from the shadow/And coughs when you would kiss.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is sometimes the practical monotony within the throes of loss that are the most wrenching to accept.

Cole had come to her, almost desperate in his reflected sorrow, and she was too disturbed by his words to be unsettled by his presence.  “He isn’t quiet anymore. can’t hear the stories, doesn’t see the world like before.  Lost, like on the ocean, drifting, desperate, dying because his heart is shattered.” His eyes, so large and filled with misery made Cassandra want to weep.  “I can’t help him, can’t get near, he’s too far away, staring back at where  _ she  _ was.”

“You will leave him to me,” she said the the dem-the  _ boy _ , she corrected herself sternly.  “I will make sure no harm comes to him. It is not my first time dealing with loss and it shall not be my last.”

“You remember the man who was your brother, so tall and strong until the mages came and killed him because he was brave and told them no.  They didn’t want to hear that so they made him suffer and you saw.”  Cole spoke so matter of factly that she almost wanted to hit him for his unintentional impertinence, for trivializing the pain that she had gone through, which molded her very being. “And then the one who had your heart, he knew too, knew the softness beneath the steel.”  He was relentless as her past was laid bare to his mind, and he repeated her pains to her, her losses.

“Enough,” she said with possibly more vehemence than was necessary. “Cole, it is not necessary to share that you know.  Sometimes it is best that the words remain unsaid.”  She glanced up as the dwarf came into view, and put her hand up to stem the tide of more memories spoken by this creature of flesh and Fade.  She continued, more gently.  “This is my role.”  Between one word and the next he was gone, and she saw Varric approach.

 

\------

 

The Seeker found him as he was making his way back to his chambers. Letters about business could be handled in the keep, but what he had to do required privacy. He didn't think he'd make it  through either dry-eyed or sober.

She said nothing, simply walked alongside as he went.  He glanced up at her, waiting to see what she was going to say, what ridiculous cold comfort she’d offer that he could finally use to break free from his carefully held grip on sanity.  He needed someone to slip, to say the wrong thing, to cross his path in just such a way that his temper could break through and become a living thing, something hot and angry to burn away the pain that had made its home in his heart.

Cassandra, however just stayed by his side, made no move to give unsolicited advice, to pretend that she understood when how could anyone understand? She didn’t speak. She simply  _ was _ , in her own solid, steady way.  Despite their oil and water dispositions, their work ethics that were completely at odds with one another, the trust issues that had tilted more toward one and then the other, a kinship had been struck between the two.  It was unconventional, it wasn’t demonstrative, but it was there. And so she watched over him, the Seeker as his guardian while inside his heart shattered.

He didn’t say anything when he reached his door, though he hesitated after going through, hand on the handle, considering whether solitude or the stolid nature of the warrior woman was preferred.  At last he gestured her through.

“I don’t know why you want to keep the company of the dead, but be my guest, Seeker.”  She moved to sit before the fire, but glanced at the chair, at its particular positioning, at the coverlet that sat draped across it, and thought better of her choice.  Instead she sat at his table, and followed him, studied him as he moved through the chambers, gathering writing material.  “All you’re going to see is an epitaph written for someone who can’t be described with words.”

At last he sat, as far across from her as possible as he could get, and spread out his materials.  She saw that even in the depths of sorrow, he was meticulous.  Quills and nibs rested on a cloth that protected both instrument and surface.  Ink sat neatly in its well which was cradled in its nest, stopper keeping it safe from the elements.  Paper sprawled in an organized mess, the centerpiece of his eventual memoriam, the stone upon which he would chisel her eulogy.

“I do not know how you can commit it to paper,” she said finally, as he began the first of his series of letters.  “That is a strength I do not possess.” 

He took a deep breath, composed as he could be before the other woman.  “It’s not strength.  It’s necessity. Who else is going to tell them?  And they deserve to know.”  He reached for one of the other bottles, one that sloshed with liquid that glowed amber in the ambient light.  He didn’t bother with a glass, just released the stopper and took a pull that lasted longer than it would have on a normal night.  But there were no normal nights to be had anymore.  With that somber thought, he drank deeply again, letting the warm fire of the brandy start to burn away the jagged edges of emotion.  Absently he saw how easy it would be to get lost in the lure of alcoholic oblivion, to not have to feel as though his soul was bleeding for the rest of his life.

“You will not find comfort in that, not for long,” she said to him, breaking him out of the staring contest he was having with the bottle.  He looked up at her.

“I don’t need it for long...I  _ do  _ need it tonight.  Beyond that, you have my permission to bash me over the head with if I decide to go down that path.”

“I wouldn’t need your permission,” she said simply, eyes dark and somber.  “You have a duty to the Inquisition, but more importantly one to yourself to not give into Despair.”

He looked away first.  Varric was many things, but he was not foolish enough to contradict Cassandra Pentaghast when she was serious and he was well on his way to being well and truly shitfaced.  He also still had letters to write.  That quickly sobered his thoughts as he put pen to paper.  “As you say, Seeker.”

 

_ Rivaini- _

 

_ Hawke did what she always does.  Charged in first, didn’t blink, didn’t back down. _

_ She saved the Inquisitor.  Probably the world. _

_ And this time she didn’t come home. _

_ I know you always said it was bound to happen. I didn’t think you’d actually be right. _

_ Break it to Broody, would you? If he’s still with you.  I’ll send him his own, but it’ll go faster if you let him know.  There’ll be fewer holes in your ship, too. _

_ You know where to find me, I’m here for the long haul. _

 

_ -V _

 

“Shit.”

“You could simply have Leliana’s scribes inform them.”

It was his turn to meet her with hard eyes.  “Not a chance in the Void, Seeker.  I tell them, or no one does.”

She nodded.  “I know. I was reminding you of the alternatives.”

“Why the fuck are you here, anyway?”  he growled; he was being an ass, but he frankly didn’t care.  He had to tell his friends, her friends,  _ their friends _ , that they were never seeing her again. He figured he got some leeway.

“You shouldn’t be alone, but you shouldn’t be surrounded by people, either.  There are too few who understand this, and fewer still who are able to allow you to mourn in peace while still being within a necessary proximity in case something is needed.” She nodded towards the bottle.  “That will do its work for this evening.  I will ensure you’re not disturbed, as is people’s wont when someone is lost.”  Her expression softened slightly, not enough for pity, just sympathy.  “They believe they’re helping when all they do is keep the wound fresh.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “The voice of experience?”

She gave a small nod.  “Too much.”  Her hand gestured to the letters.  “But this is not my story.  You have work to do, as do I.”  She took out her own sheaf of papers from the case at her side.  “I have reports to write.  Do as you will.  I will be here throughout the night, unless you wish for me to go.”

He looked down at the unwritten words, and back up at the woman.  “I’ll need someone to haul my ass to bed by the end of all of this...and make sure I survive to see the morning.”  Varric picked up his quill.  He had never hated writing,  _ hated _ his own words until they started to form on the page in front of him.

 

_ Junior- _

_ I don’t want to write this letter to you.  But I have to. _

  
  


_ Daisy- _

_ Go sit down, please.  Somewhere quiet. _

  
  


_ Broody- _

_ I’m sure the Admiral has told you by now. _

  
  


_ Choir Boy- _

_ Look, I know you don’t want to hear from me, but she’d want me to tell you. _

  
  


_ Blondie- _

_ If you’re still alive, I know how you’ll take this, so for this world’s sake I hope you’re not. _

  
  


_ Aveline- _

_ She’s gone. _


	48. And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are moments that become necessary to get us where we most desire to be; loss can bring for lessons for the learning, and most of us are more than we appear.

She woke with a start, and her head connected with something hard. “Nngh!”  She struggled for a moment, having forgotten where she was, until the familiar scents that spoke of comfort permeated her senses, and she relaxed as her mind reconnected with the evening before.

“Maker’s-ow.  Steady, Rowan.  I already have a scarred lip, I could do without a similarly marked tongue.”  A hand reached out to rub at his chin, where she had obviously slammed her forehead in her moment of waking.

“Cullen.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to….” She trailed off, unsure.

She could feel the chuckle from where she was tucked against him.  “I certainly hope not. I’m afraid if you did we’d need to have a conversation.”  His hand moved from his jawline which he believed to be none the worse for wear, to hers, where he tilted her face up and brushed his lips over hers. “This is a much more pleasant way to greet one another, wouldn’t you agree?”

Her blush was immediate.  “I am dangerously uncoordinated, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps, but it’s rather charming...if occasionally painful.”  He kissed her again.  “And frankly a minor injury is worth waking up with you in my arms,” he said, a small smile on his face.  She was pleased to see that some of the exhaustion of the day before had ebbed and he looked more hale. Still, it was hard not to blame herself for his state.

“I can see you trying to cast doubt on yourself, Inquisitor, and I would ask that you stop before I’m forced to do something very boring.”

“Such as?” she asked, curious.

“Such as proving to you that there is no lasting injury.”

She pulled back to look at him.  “That doesn’t seem very-mmph!” He had taken the opportunity to capture her mouth with his own, deepening the kiss slightly and eliciting a small sound of pleasure from her before breaking away.

“As you can see, I am quite well.”  His smile grew at the eyebrow she raised at him.  “I wanted you to be under no illusions about my state of being.”

“Incorrigible, Commander, is not a word I ever thought I would use to describe you, but it seems I was mistaken.”  She matched his grin with her own, and it felt...good...to be doing so.  Losing Hawke was painful, horrible, but she’d be the first who would yell at her for not embracing, well, Cullen and the opportunities that lay in front of her.

“She was a terrible hypocrite, you know.”

“I assume you mean Hawke?”

“Yes.  She would bet a fair amount of money on our relationship, but could never accept the same for herself.” Rowan shook her head, trying to keep the melancholy at bay.  “I wanted so badly for the two of them….”

“Ten years of stubborn pride and carefully built walls are a hard thing to tear down.”  He brushed his fingers against her cheek.  “Self-preservation is something I know a bit about.  I am sorry it’s something they weren’t able to work past before the end.”

Rowan clenched her jaw and groaned in frustration. “It’s simply not fair.  None of this is. And I know that’s naive thinking, and overly simplistic, but I can’t help feeling as though there should be more, that I should have had the chance to bring everyone home.”  She sat in thought, moments ticking by, and Cullen watched her face as she puzzled through the problem before her.  At last she met his eyes, a question in them.

“Is it still possible to send for those trainers you had spoken about?”

*******************

“Yes, but what is your  _ name_?”

“I am Your Trainer.” 

It had been a ten minute conversation just to try and find out what Rowan was supposed to call the woman.  Dorian had stopped by for a moment and suggested “Crazy,” which earned him a withering look as he went off to speak with the Mortalitasi who had come in as an option to help her learn to hone her skills and find a suitable specialization.  She had rejected that possibility almost immediately; the dead were meant to rest, be they friend or enemy, and she had no desire to manipulate their bodies to her will.  It was simply not something she could bring herself to do.  She understood the need for the spells, even respected the practitioners, and allowed those who wished to learn to ask for lessons, but couldn’t bring herself to accept the feeling of desecration that came with the work.

The call of the Knight Enchanter was strong, but she knew her own limitations and melee combat would see her more quickly killed than the other forms. She suggested to Commander Helaine that there were others in the camp who would benefit from her training. Vivienne came down from her salon long enough to speak with the elven woman, and they shared a kinship over their particular skill set, moving off to look over the potential recruits among the former Circle mages as well as the various Dalish and other apostates who had made Skyhold their home.

In the end, the Rift simply made sense.  The green presence in her palm made it her choice almost by default.  Getting through to the woman who was training her was another matter entirely.  Almost everything she said was vague or convoluted, as difficult to interpret as Cole was at times. But within the cryptic words, she saw potential for growth, for a way to  _ control _ the wild energies that were always around her.  She could weave spells out of the wisps of magic, make them take shape to attack and defend, and not simply be a hole in the world that needed to be sewn shut.  It could be the instrument of its own destruction, a way to save the world from the danger the Fade and Corypheus posed.

All of this was theoretical as the woman who was supposed to teach her was unable to form sentences coherent enough to glean the information she needed.  In one conversation, she had forgotten that Rowan was there twice, and began talking to the hedge by the wall of the keep, instructing it in proper offensive strategy and the correct temperature at which to steep tea.  In the end, she left the woman to her debate on water’s boiling point and started walking towards Solas’ tower.  She had already learned much from the quiet mage, and she thought he would be a good source for further learning, even if he wasn’t-

“I could not help but overhear your conversation with the woman who was to assist you, Lethal’lan,” a lilting voice said, pulling her out of her musings.  “Perhaps I could be of some help, if you so wish.”

His vallaslin seemed to trace along the fine lines of his bronzed face, starkly pale in contrast to his darkened skin, their tribute to June easily distinguishable.  His hair was even whiter than the blood writing, making him seem ageless rather than aged.  “I apologize, Lethal’lin, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I am Cillian, formerly of clan Ralaferin, Lady Herald.  I have recently joined your Inquisition in the hopes of assisting in solving the problem of the rifts and he who has created them.”  He put his hand over his heart and bowed slightly.  “It is an honor to be in the presence of one held in such high esteem.”

“Formerly of Ralaferin? You are no longer associated with your people?”

“I am welcome among them, but my life has taken a path which diverges from theirs.  It is that very difference which I believe may assist you in your battle against he who is called the Elder One.  If you would care to follow, I will endeavor to show you what I mean.”  He carried his staff as an extension of his body, not a walking stick, not a brandished weapon.  He existed, and so did it.  She had seen this sort of...oneness before, but very rarely, with mages who had found a sort of peace with their abilities, an attunement to the Fade that was inspirational.

The training grounds had been cleared for the day, practice giving way to guard rotations, so the area was clear for Cillian’s demonstration.  He closed his eyes for a moment, and stretched out his hand.  In front of him a green glow appeared, a small Rift that made her hand snap and burn in response.  She cried out slightly at the unexpected sensation, and he quickly snapped it away.  “I do apologize, I had no intention of causing you harm, Lethal’lan.”

“No, it’s fine, there is nothing to be done for it, but I wasn’t expecting...how did you  _ do _ such a thing?”

“It is, I believe, what the woman called Your Trainer had discovered but is unable to relate to you.  It is a manipulation of the Fade, a thinning of the Veil to allow that raw power to seep through to this side, just long enough to gather it to itself and hold the essence of magic in your palm.”  He said this quietly, with no hint of hunger.  He was simply stating that such an ability existed, and it was one he was proficient in.

“That is unprecedented. How did you learn such a thing, ha’hren?” 

“The world holds many wonders if one is patient enough to stop and look for them,” he said simply.  “The land of dreams does much the same, and it imparts much Wisdom to those who are open to learning from it.”  He took a moment to look her over, reached out before him once again.  “Now this time, be prepared.” She had a second to come to terms with the sparking burn before the rift opened once again.  This time however she was able to control her reaction, contained it to a grimace.  “Now take it and make it your own.”

“How do I do that?”

“The same way that you use the magic you hold within.  Find its center and channel it to yourself.  Fire, flame,  Fade, they are all different forms of power.  Look for core of its being.  Draw it to you.  Shape it to your desired outcome.”

“But it’s outside of me.”

“Yes, but the magic used for controlling it is  _ inside _ of you.  Close your eyes, Lady Rowan, and  _ look. _ ”

She did as he said, closing her eyes and and first seeing only the darkness.  But slowly the world behind her eyelids came into focus and she could make out the green orb flowing in front of and to the right of her.  She stretched out a hand, asked for the orb to come to her.

And it moved possibly an inch, still far too out of range to say an impact had been made.

“Try again, Lan'sila,” he said softly, encouraging her words and movements, and she reached out again, simply  _ wanted _ the orb of green light to come closer to her.  A bead of sweat at the effort trailed down her neck and into her collar, a testimony to the effort she was putting into simply wresting control of the ball of Fade energies from a willing mage.

And finally, with painstakingly slow movements, the orb became hers, settling over her hand, a swirling ball of power that looked identical whether she saw it with her eyes or with her mind.  It was simply there, waiting for her to make her choice of how to wield it.  “It is yours now, da’len.  Think of what you wish to do with it.”

She stared into the heart of it, pondering the possibilities.  With a small push of energy, she made the ball collapse in on itself, winking it out of existence.  The other elf smiled at her decision. “Well done. The greatest weapon one can have is the knowledge of when and how it should be sheathed.  Now, shall we try again?”

The shadows lengthened as the day continued on, Rowan taking the time to discover the minutiae involved in holding the power of the Fade at one’s fingertips.  It didn’t like to be tamed, to be held.  It struggled slightly against the bond which kept it in place. But by the end of several hours she had discovered that she could use her own innate powers steeped in winter to bind it more tightly to her, a ball of green wrapped in a coating of cool blue.

It was taxing, and by the end of the impromptu lesson she was throbbing from head to toe with exhaustion, but it had been worth all of the effort to start her journey towards understanding what the Fade could do with the right manipulation, what control could be wrested from the raw energy that existed in the world of green that hovered just out of sight behind the Veil.  “Very good, Lethal’lan.  Tomorrow we can continue, if you so desire.  Tonight consider what you learned, ponder your limitations, and decide if they are something you wish to test as we continue.  We often wish to push ourselves beyond our boundaries, but it is good to ask if that is a wise course.”

She nodded. “Yes, ha’hren.  Thank you...you cannot understand what this means to me.”

“I have the merest inkling, Lethal’lan. You have suffered loss and wish to minimize its reoccurence. It is a noble goal.  I hope to help bring you that outcome.  Dareth shiral, Lady Herald.”

“Dareth shiral, Cillian.”  His movements were still graceful and fluid as he made his way towards the battlements, disappearing quickly out of sight behind the stone walls.  After a moment she closed her eyes, the exertion of the afternoon taking its toll.  She turned with a stifled yawn towards the keep and her bed, only to have a pair of hands grasp her upper arms to keep her from running into him.

“You’ve had a busy day today, ‘ma falon.”  He glanced over her shoulder briefly at where the other mage had disappeared to, but refocused on her after a moment.  “I believe congratulations are in order for the choosing of your new teacher.”  His voice was mild, but there was an undercurrent of...something, that bothered her as he spoke.

“Yes, I have,” she responded, putting aside the nagging feeling about his statement.  “And one of the Inquisition’s own has offered to assist me.  Have you met Cillian, Solas?”

“No,” he replied, “though I believe now that I know his capabilities, it will be imperative for me to do so.  I wonder what his limitations are, as well as his experiences.”  Again, a discordant note in his tone.  

“Is something bothering you, Lethal’lin?”

He looked at her in surprise.  “No, why would you think so?” Immediately his expression softened, and the hardness that she was sure had been there dissipated. “I am glad that you are expanding your already impressive talents. I only wish I had been here to see some of the techniques this Dalish mage is using.  It would be fascinating to study his approach.”

“We are planning on continuing tomorrow. You could join us. I’m sure that Cillian would greatly enjoy sharing his experiences as well as hearing of your journeys in the Fade.  He seems to have an endless thirst for knowledge.”

Realizing he still had his hands on her upper arms, he let them drop and stepped back slightly, enough to give them some space. “I shall do so,” he said with one of the small smiles that didn’t quite meet his eyes.  “It is always a pleasure to watch you wield your abilities. You are truly Grace personified when you do.”

“I don’t believe that was Varric’s intent when he bestowed that particular nickname on me, but thank you.”  

“There is no need to thank me for merely speaking the truth.  But, ah, I fear my visit here was not entirely to meet your new ha’hren.  I was told you were seeking a time to meet with the  _ witch  _ who joined us from Halamshiral.” There was a derisive tone to his voice when he mentioned her title.  “I intercepted a page on his way to inform you, and thought I would take the opportunity to see you, Lethal’lan.  It has been too long.”  He looked momentarily unsure of what to say next.  “May I escort you to the garden? I don’t know what wisdom  _ she _ has to impart, but I suppose any insight would be beneficial at this time.”

“Yes.  I’m sure there’s more to her than simply a mysterious apostate who had the ear of  the Empress.  I’m interested to see what she has to say.” She looked up at him as they walked back up the stairs from the courtyard.  “Would you care to join me? I always welcome your counsel.”

“Ah, no.  I believe you will be more effective gleaning information without me at your side.  I can already tell we will be at odds over many issues.”  He stopped at the door that led to the gardens.  “But if you find out anything of import, I would be greatly interested if you wished to share your discoveries.  And ‘ma falon, it has been too long since we have simply talked.”

She turned to the door, a small smile on her face.  “Yes.  We should spend more time together.  Perhaps over a cup of tea tomorrow, Lethal’lin?”  She could almost hear his shudder.

“You are a cruel woman, my friend.”

“On occasion.  Dareth shiral, Solas.”  She turned the knob and stepped through the door to the west wing.

“Dareth shiral, Rowan.”  He shook his head, and turned back to his rotunda, determined to learn what he could of the Dalish interloper who seemed to know far too much about manipulation of the Fade and the Veil.  A little knowledge was controllable, but too much would be...unadvisable.  And perhaps destructive.

*******************

The young boy approached her spot in the gazebo as she looked out at the small crowd that assembled in the space she had set aside for prayer and meditation, reflection and peace.  Morrigan had kept her waiting, something she suspected was a deliberate power play, but the child had no such compunction. 

She studied him as he approached, curious about this newcomer to the Inquisition. He was dark haired, with pale skin and fathomless black eyes that were almost hypnotic in their depth.  This was Kieran, then, the son Morrigan had brought with her to Skyhold.  He seemed both young and slight, but there was nothing frail about him.  There was something almost familiar in his stance, though she couldn’t begin to say what it was.

“You carry winter in your blood,” he said without preamble, sitting himself next to her and staring, unblinking.  He couldn't have been any more than ten, but there was a timelessness that drew her in, made her question the years in his small body.  “And it's very old.”

“Is it?” she asked, genuinely curious at what he had to say. The son of a mythical Witch of the Wilds was no one to trifle with, and there was something about him that spoke of magic and wisdom. 

“Yes,” he replied simply. “Older than the magic on your hand, as old as-”

“Are you bothering the Inquisitor, Kieran?” Morrigan’s voice was stern, but there was a genuine warmth underlying the words that revealed a level of affection at odds with the aloof persona the woman tended to display to the world in general.

“Of course not, Mother.” His voice was matter of fact, as if pointing out something obvious. “Have you  _ seen _ what's on her hand?”

“I have. Just as I've also seen the studies that you've left unfinished.” The smile on her face removed some of the mystique, showed her to be the relatively young mother she was, instead of the mystique of the mage.  Too many people in Skyhold found her intimidating, enigmatic. Rowan had seen countless Dalish put on the same airs to keep the outside world at bay. She knew well enough that those attitudes hid insecurities and fear.

“Alright, Mother.” He stood and started back to the room the two shared above the gardens. Kieran stopped partway and glanced behind him, meeting her eyes with his own dark pools. “The Fade is powerful. But you have power, too.  Don’t forget your first tests.”  And he turned swiftly and took off, once again just a boy on his way to his lessons.

Rowan’s eyes widened at the child as she watched his retreating back.  “How did he…?”

“Kieran is a very special boy, Inquisitor, as you have no doubt gathered even in this brief encounter.”  Morrigan moved up to where she sat, looking down her nose slightly at Rowan, daring her to disagree.

“He most certainly is,” she said with a hint of wonder to her voice, and then she met the other woman’s gaze and its hawk-like stare.  “You must be exceptionally proud of him.”  Her words and tone were both sincere, and Morrigan looked as though she wanted to argue, to find contention, but she couldn’t.  So instead she attempted to create some.  

“I suppose you are wondering about his father.”

The mage shook her head.  “I’m the last person to question someone’s parentage.  My father wasn’t my blood, but he loved me as though I was.  Lineage is irrelevant when it comes to matters of affection.” Rowan quirked a smile.  “Besides, it’s your business, and I’m not in the habit of prying into the lives of others.”  She glanced up to see Leliana standing on the walkway outside the aviary.  “If I truly wanted to know, I would ask my spymaster. I’m sure she has the information, and would impart the knowledge if I inquired.”  

Morrigan followed her gaze, and her eyes narrowed.  “Yes.  Leliana does have a way of finding out things that are better left alone.  ‘Tis not one of her finer traits.”  She turned back to Rowan.  “You...are not what I expected, Inquisitor Lavellan.  There is a wisdom to you I did not expect to find.”

“I believe you’re paying me a compliment, though to be fair, I’m not entirely sure, Lady Morrigan.” Rowan had a suspicion that she’d actually like the woman if she stopped attempting to be cryptic and vague.

A raised eyebrow was the only change of expression on Morrigan’s face.  “I can be most complimentary when the situation calls for such things. And ‘tis not just I who believe there to be depth to you. The very stones of Skyhold have claimed you as their own.  This place recognizes you, and is...pleased with your presence.” 

To an outsider hearing those words, it may have seemed as though Morrigan had lost her mind.  However, what she said made a kind of sense to Rowan.  Since arriving at the fortress, she had known that there was a...sentience to the place, an echo of whatever it had once been whispering just beneath the surface. “I only hope I can continue to be worthy of its choosing,” she said simply.  She prayed that invocation that every day, with every breath, and not just to be worthy of Skyhold, but worthy of the role she had been chosen for.

“Time will tell how you will fare, but thus far ‘tis a rough road you have navigated, not unlike the one your predecessor took a decade ago.  I had the dubious privilege of seeing her meet her Fate and defeat the archdemon that threatened Thedas at that point.”  Morrigan took a moment to look over the elven woman, sizing her up in her mind, calculating, measuring, and finally, with a nod, deciding.  “Yes. You remind me a bit of her.  Perhaps you will have her success as well.” There was a certain smug satisfaction to her words.  “And once again I am in the midst of an event that will shape and reshape the world.  I cannot help but think that my presence will assist in your endeavor as it did with hers.”

“No one will ever accuse you of undue modesty, Morrigan,” Rowan said before she could stop herself.

“I would certainly hope not,” she answered simply.  “I don’t pretend humility for the sake of public opinion.  That particular trait allowed me to get along rather well in the Winter Palace.”  She looked up again at where the Nightingale perched, and nodded once in her direction.  Rowan could just make out a returned inclination, and wondered at the true nature of the relationship between them.  It seemed far less antagonistic than either was willing to admit.  “Now, Inquisitor, perhaps it is time for you to see what I have brought with me to aid you in your quest.  I believe that you will find it particularly...interesting.”


	49. Parting is bitter and weeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes are not done once, and sorrow does not ease in a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, everyone, for the delay in writing. New job, extensive hours...etc, etc and so forth. It's not an excuse, and I'm getting back into the swing of words again, so in the meantime, there's a bit of heartache to tide you over.

He didn’t want to say goodbye.  It was the last thing he wanted in his fucking life, and there were a lot of things he  _ didn’t _ want.

He didn’t want the city he loved to be engulfed in flames, torn apart by a war everyone and no one seemed to want.  It was senseless, ridiculous, and at least partially started by someone he considered a friend, a companion.  

_ Who went and blew up a fucking Chantry.  Way to go, Anders. I told you pairing me with him in that book of yours didn’t make any sense.  You think I’d go along with that? _

He didn’t want the dwarven woman he had held a torch for year in and year out to be less than the perfect dream that he had created.  But he knew that reality couldn’t begin to compare with the fantasy.  

_ Except when it came to the crossbow.  I always figured it was the crossbow that was both the fantasy  _ and _ the reality.  For a long time I didn’t think the breathing one existed...she does exist, right?  Otherwise the “holding a torch” for an inanimate object opens a door to a whole other set of issues…. _

Even that had faded once a bright-eyed human with sarcasm, brains, and a penchant for burning things showed up in his life.  He suspected he had just traded one form of insanity for another.  but this bit of crazy was warm and real and filled with the promise of adventure.

_ And I smell like roses, too. _

_ No.  You smell like a campfire. _

_ A campfire? You can do better than that, Varric. _

_ Fine. _

She reminded him of the burning of dry leaves after autumn brought its chill into Thedas.  The warmth that drove away the darkness of day to day living with the dancing flames of her craziness.  She kept the shadows at bay.  He wondered how she could practically wave her staff under the noses of Templars and they were none the wiser.  She  _ smelled _ like magic, sparking and fiery and untamed.

_ And beautiful.  Don’t forget that. _

_ Yes, stunning beauty to rival the most heartstopping of women. _

_ You’re pushing it a bit. _

_ Looks that could shape the world merely by gazing upon her visage, an overwhelming aesthete that would leave one breathless due to the improper fantasies one would- _

_ You’ve lost it, little man. _

He stood on the docks, watching as the small vessel steered out of port, unnoticed by whatever authorities were left as the city burned behind him.  She sailed away on it, the artist of this particular shitshow on board with her, escaping with his skin intact, but little else.  

Varric had a bet going with himself that the mage wouldn’t make it to winter without either becoming an incarnate abomination or having someone take a knife to his throat.

_ I should have seen it coming. _

_ Why is that?  Are you some kind of diviner that you can predict the future, anticipate the hidden motives of those around you? _

_ No. I’m a spymaster.  I should have had some hint that this was coming.   _

_ You can’t predict crazy. _

_ Which is why I never have any idea what in the Void you’re going to do next. _

_ Very funny.  Thank you for comparing me with the mad blond bomber. _

_ Just tell me you’re going to be okay, Hawke. _

_ Of course I am!  I’m Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, vanquisher of Qunari invaders, delver of the Deep Roads, drinker of beer, singer of songs- _

__  
We had an agreement neither of us would sing, remember?  The way the dogs howled last time….  


_ Yes, well, I make no guarantees now.  I’m out of earshot.  I may break into a chorus or two of Andraste’s Mabari.  You never know. _

It was getting late.  He didn’t know where else to go, though he knew that for all of the chaos and death around, the Hanged Man was safe.  A gust of air, frigid despite the fires around him caused him to shiver involuntarily.  

She would be safe.

She had to be safe.

She had promised.

_ Don’t die, Marian.  Whatever the fuck else you do, don’t you dare die. _

_ Of course I’m not going to die.  Who in the Void else would put up with your shit? _

The shadows lengthened and he could tell several of the fires were burning themselves out because the flickering brightness was decreasing and the smoke had decreased in its billowing blackness.  The screams had already reduced to groans as the dying finished their journey to the Maker’s bosom and the wounded lost the strength to continue crying out for succor. The fighting had already largely stopped by the time she had fled, but there was still the distant sound of clashing weapons from time to time.  

He sighed.

_ You’ve left me with a sack of cats to clean up by myself. _

_ I’ve got a crazy apostate to get out of the city.  And I’m not talking about myself for once.  Aveline will clean up the mess with her normal terrifying efficiency.  And Curly seems much more reasonable than the ruby-colored bitch who’s decorating the square at the moment. _

_ Make sure you come back to m-us. _

_ You’re not getting rid of me that easily.  Besides, I still owe you that five sovereigns. _

_ Ten. _

_ Five, but nice try.  And don’t think I’m not going to worry about you.  Who’s going to guard your ass from over-enthusiastic fans now? _

_ Bianca will just have to do. _

_ Replacing me with another woman already. _

_ Never. _

********************

He didn’t want to say goodbye again.  Especially when he knew that this time there was no ship that would bring her back, no letter he could write that would conjure her back to his side with a smartass remark and a smile that promised trouble and adventure.

_ I’m never going to be really gone, you know. _

_ I know. _

_ And you know it’s not that I didn’t- _

_ Yeah. _

_ I just figured we had all the time in the world to say- _

_ Don’t, Hawke.  It doesn’t matter anymore. _

_ It matters more than ever now.  You should know.  You need to know. _

_ I did.  I do.  I always will.  But I can’t...I can’t pretend that it’s you saying it.  That’s one fantasy I refuse to indulge in, a new story I won’t tell, this time even to myself. _

_ Maybe someday…. _

_ Yeah.  Someday. _

_ I’ll hold onto the five sovereigns for you. _

_ Ten.   _ He stared bleakly out over the battlements at the frozen expanse that made up the Frostbacks.  _ Goodbye, Marian. _

Silence was the only response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by the wonderful Chanterie who shares my taste in music (and Solas in this instance means Sun, not "Eggheaded Betrayer with Pointy Ears") [When My Love and I Parted](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FY37ufBVNUM).
> 
>  
> 
> When my love and I parted, the wind blew cold  
> When my love and I parted, our love untold  
> Though my heart was crying, "Love, come with me  
> I turned my face from his and sought the sea.
> 
> When my love and I parted, we shed no tears  
> For we knew that between us lay weary years  
> A bird was singing on a tree  
> And a gleam of sunlight lay on the sea.
> 
> Parting is bitter and weeping, vain  
> But all true lovers will meet again  
> For no fate can sever my love from me  
> For his heart is a river and mine, the sea.


	50. The eye of a little god, four-cornered.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are places that defy explanation, and moments that shatter the silence.

“This place...it was beautiful once, wasn’t it?”  She expected...something.  The green swirling mists of the Fade.  The cold air of the Frostbacks.  Instead there was neither, and yet...something of both.  It stood...locked.  Frozen in a moment like a painting, unchanging, captured right on the cusp of collapse.

“I suspect it was the epitome of loveliness in its time, yes,” Morrigan said, watching with keen eyes as the Inquisitor took in their surroundings.  There was a kindred there, the Witch felt, someone who might at last understand her drive to learn, to find out all she could about the people from before, the elves who were at once a part of this Herald’s legacy and yet so very far removed from who she was.

“And these eluvians all lead somewhere?”  Rowan stepped tentatively towards one, studying it carefully, examining the cracks in the glass that seemed to have rendered the mirrors lifeless, their brilliance snuffed out by someone who was more afraid than awed by their powers.

“They do...or at least they did. To points throughout Thedas and well beyond anything we might consider familiar to our world.  They exist...in between.  A small pocket of space where beyond lies infinite possibilities.” She couldn’t quite keep the admiration out of her voice.  She moved to stand next to the elven woman as she put out a hand to stroke the curve of the frame.  Something inside them both mourned the destruction. There were questions that would never be answered unless a miracle occurred and somehow that which was shattered could be made whole again.

The pieces littered the ground. “Is there nothing to be done for them?”

“I've heard of attempts, though not any successful ones, I fear.” Something caught the woman’s eye and she turned, approaching one of the mirrors that seemed be intact. “Though that is indeed a piece I do not remember seeing whole before.” She approached it. “Fascinating. I wonder if the girl was able to complete her work after all.” Her voice was distracted, a scholar intent on a potential discovery. “While I heard a great many things during my time in court, certain lines of inquiry were...limited.” Morrigan ran her hands over the wrought metal, as though memorizing it by touch. 

“Does it work?” Rowan asked as the silence continued and the witch seemed distracted by the shimmering surface.

She started slightly, being pulled out of her scrutiny by the elf’s voice. “I...do not know,” she replied slightly  stunned by her own lack of knowledge.  “‘Tis intact, but I do not know what key will unlock it, and such a lock should not be forced.”

“It  _ can  _ be forced, then?”

Morrigan gave a small nod. “Yes. But to do so t’would be the height of foolishness or desperation. Pouring the amount of power needed into one of the eluvians could destroy both gateway and traveler. Finesse is the answer to finding the key. And patience.”

Still, the knowledge that hammer or scalpel could either work was important to remember. “How did you find out about this place, Morrigan?  This was not a place designed for humans...I can feel that as surely as the points on my ears.”

“There was a point, after the end of the Blight where sanctuary became a necessity for me. And this was the only place that would give me the shelter and the safety that I sought for myself and my child.” She gestured to the misty expanse surrounding them.  “This place...it was my guardian so I could be his.”  She smiled slightly, and there was a hint of youth, almost of whimsy that seemed surprising but not out of place on her face.  “And here I could explore the worlds at my leisure, find answers and, yes, more questions that eventually led me to the Empress.”  Her face once again took on its serious mien.  “And to you, Inquisitor.  I do not doubt that ‘twas no mere coincidence that brought us together.  I do not like the idea of petty gods using us as pieces on their game boards, but I cannot deny that there is an unseen hand in what has come to pass.”

Rowan shook her head.  “After everything I’ve seen, everything that’s occurred...I have to either accept it as a grand plan or believe that life is nothing but a string of happenstances with no answers to be found, no purpose greater than mere survival.” She straightened a bit, locked eyes with the other mage.  “I choose the believe the former.”

“‘Tis as likely as any other explanation. But while we may wax poetic here in the Crossroads unto eternity, I have brought you here for another reason.  This, I am quite sure, is what Corypheus seeks.  Entrance into this world between worlds, an area that brushes up against the Fade so that he may break through with ease and claim that which he believes is his right.  He  _ must _ be stopped.  For any to grasp such power would be disastrous, but for one such as him…’twould truly bring about the end of the world.”

“How many are you aware of that are still functional?”  She looked around, as though expecting to see one of them start to glow before the Elder One burst through.

“A mere handful; the one you came here  through, possibly one in or around the City of Chains, a few more scattered throughout the worlds that intersect with ours-”

“Worlds.  I thought you might have misspoken at first, but you are saying you believe these eluvians exist in other lands? Ones beyond Thedas?”  The idea was unfathomable.

“I do not just  _ believe _ , Inquisitor.  I  _ know. _ I did not spend my time here idling away and  waiting for rescue by some knight upon a steed.  I learned the land in which I dwelt, discovered many, though I am sure not all of its secrets.  I have seen lands that defy explanation.”

“And yet this has been abandoned, broken.  Left to crumble and waste away, forgotten by almost everyone.  How could such a thing happen?”

I...do not know.  It is one of the mysteries that I have sought to unlock for all of these years. I suspect that when Arlathan fell, when the elves lost their status, these places lost their power.”

Her head swung back and forth, staring at the rows of mirrors, darkened and destroyed like neglected gravestones.  “No. There was something more.  A deliberateness to these actions, a reason that they’re almost all destroyed.”

“The destruction of routes, perhaps to prevent pursuit?”

Slowly she nodded.  “That’s very likely.  I’ll have to speak to Solas about all of this when we return.”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed, and her lip curled in something akin to distaste. “Ah yes. The elf who spends much of his time locked away in his dreams or crafting frescoes of your accomplishments.  He might have a useful tidbit or two.  But I’ve found most elves have only a narrow and tentative grasp of their history, their origins.”

Rowan’s laugh echoed only slightly in the mist; sounds traveled a very small distance and dissipated quickly. “You haven’t spoken to my Lethal’lin at all, then.  I think you will be quite surprised by the knowledge he carries with him.”

“Perhaps.  Very little surprises me anymore.  I believe it comes with the passing of years...and motherhood.  And to stop Corypheus, I will risk the possibility of some boredom by speaking to this Solas of yours.”

"Thank you, Morrigan.  I feel I owe you a debt for everything you’ve done.”

“We strive for common goals; you owe me nothing beyond the trust that I will do the utmost to protect what is mine.”

Rowan looked down at her hand, which quietly glowed in the dusky light. “As will I. I've already lost one friend and it's come close to breaking me. I'm not losing any more without a fight.” She took another look around her.  “We need to get back, tell the others, so we can form a plan of attack.”  She glanced back up, looking at the broken promises that dotted the land. The world around her was vague and indistinct.  “I don’t want my world, my home, to turn into this, a memory of a memory, a graveyard with no one left to mourn.”

“You continue to surprise me, Inquisitor. I expected a figurehead, a puppet for the shattered Chantry.” Morrigan tilted her head to the side. “You are far more.  And you are correct. ‘Tis time to return and put thoughts into action.”

The pair stepped back through the portal that awaited them, turning dark once more when they returned to Skyhold.

Behind them, in the distance, another surface shimmered, blue light reflecting on the mists as the broken pieces of another eluvian glowed with power, its counterpart activated.  The brightness quickly disappeared, as the one attempting to travel the ways couldn’t pass through and a frustrated cry echoed through the dusk.

“Fuck this.”


	51. Who lifts that mirror and throws our mind back on us, and our heart, until we start?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are not always what they seem, and ends are sometimes merely the next fork in the road.

The eluvians mocked her. None of them would open, despite her colorful and effusive use of swearing. Hawke was alone, had been alone for...she didn’t know how long. She had stopped counting the number of times she slept, because that wasn't really accurate. She didn't seem to get tired in the Fade. Or hungry. She occasionally ate out of habit, when she remembered. What she  _ did _ get was bored. Exceptionally bored.

Varric had always said the only thing more dangerous than Marian Hawke angry was Marian Hawke with time on her hands and no clear goal in mind.

_ Varric. _ Just the thought of that asshole made her chest clench painfully. That son of a bitch. Why the hell did she have to go and do that stupidly conventional cliché thing and-no. She wasn’t going to put voice to it. It would make it real. And in a way that was totally different from what she thought was a dying declaration.

Because she hadn't died. As soon as Lavellan  had jumped through that Rift, the creature cried out in frustration and left. It was as though it had forgotten her existence entirely. Which she found vaguely insulting. A relief, but insulting. Apparently without a glowing hand nearby, she didn't count as important enough to try and destroy. She was the damn Champion of Kirkwall. She thought that would have at least gotten her a half-assed fight, but no. She was left alone with her thoughts.

She hated her thoughts. And she hated being alone, much as she pretended otherwise. She liked having the distraction of other people around to keep her from delving too deeply into her mind. But she had no choice. Hawke’s mind was always in motion. And it was currently trying to tell her that she was lost, alone, without anything that could or would make her happy.  It wasn’t true, she  _ knew _ it wasn’t true. But her brain liked to take the opportunity to try and betray her when it was too quiet, when she had too much time on her hands. It wanted to fill her with doubts and fears, self-loathing and enough insecurity that she should be a gibbering wreck of humanity once she took the bait and gave into the despair.  _ Logically _ , she knew that happiness was a choice, that it was always there, waiting for her, and all she needed to do was acknowledge it, reach out and touch it and wrap herself in it. But emotions and logic often didn’t come together in that healthy oneness that would have brought about contentment.  And fewer headaches.

And it was currently reminding her of what she had lost, what she never had, what she was lacking…. 

No. She refused to give into her mind’s little tricks, emphasized by her isolation in a place that was  _ literally  _ a Nightmare. Down that road was destruction and rage and misery and likely a tumbling over the edge into the type of crazy she couldn’t recover from.  And she had work to do. She had to get out of the fucking Fade.

The damn mirrors were the key.  She wished she had paid more attention to Merrill’s incessant chattering on about their abilities, what their lore was. But half of it was fantasy and the other half was wild guesswork on the elf’s part.  Or at least it seemed wild. Using blood magic, using a demon, using that...knife...thing.  None of it seemed to work.  Like almost everything that she had come across that was elven, it stubbornly refused to cooperate and reveal its knowledge, holding all of its secrets like a miser.

It was probably the only time she missed that stupid bald wizard and his insufferable arrogance about his knowledge of...everything. He’d probably just smirk, wiggle his fingers, and send her flying through one of the damnable mirrors to her doom.  Which...was a debatably worse fate than being stuck where she was.  Then again, she wouldn’t have turned down a change of scenery...even if it was as she was meeting her death.

Change of scenery…. The errant thought sparked an idea in Hawke’s mind. She  _ was _ in the Fade, after all, the place where her power was supposed to be sourced from.  She had never really considered it from that perspective; the fire had always just come at her call, a pull of her will.  And there were limits to what she could do, at least there were on the other side of the Veil.

So a very bored, very frustrated Marian Hawke clenched her fists, and fire curled around her hands like an orange mist.  She called the magic to her, a bit at a time, and instead of sharply tugging at it as she normally did to get the fastest reaction, the quickest response, she tried to emulate what she had seen the Inquisitor do, and envisioned the spell coiling like a skein of yarn, playing between her fingers, gently licking at her skin.  The power shivered along her skin, caressing her as it built, its warmth a familiar comfort to her.  

And it still came.  Long past where she normally felt the end of her ability to hold a spell, it built, until her arms were engulfed in delicate shimmering flames that appeared to distort them, making them wave and flicker brightly in contrast to the sickly green half-light of the Fade.  The amount of power she held was heady, and she knew she needed to stop gathering before it overwhelmed her, so she looked for a target for her experiment...and her frustration while she was at it.

Then she saw the object of that would serve well enough as a test subject, and she smirked at her hapless victim. Hawke held her hands up in front of her like a supplicant, and extended her fingers out, blasting a twisted Tevinter statue of one of their Old Gods, wave after wave of flame pouring forth from her.  Even with the amount of energy sent at it, the statue didn’t explode so much as...transform, pouring like lava onto the ground, pooling and curling and rising back up, the ugliness of the old regime disappearing and becoming something new with the force of her magic, being reborn with her pent up anger and her desire to be free.  

The newly formed dragon spread its wings wide, head proudly erect, breathing the fire that she sculpted it with.  Scales that shone like blood, sparkled like rubies, coated its body, and it launched itself into the air as the fire licked its tail into existence.  Its scream was silent, and the creature lasted only a few moments before shattering into a red crystalline rain, which poured down over Hawke, water blending with the tears of exertion that rolled down her face as she collapsed, spent and panting, to her knees.

It took her a moment to fully realize what had happened.  Her magic, which had left her in a wave of fiery destruction, had transformed the very stone of the Fade into a fire-breathing wyrm unlike anything she had seen before. It was a construct, she knew, not a real dragon, because life couldn’t be wrested from rock, but the Fade had bent to her will on a level she had never seen before outside of what that crazy witch, Flemeth, had done.

And she knew then with a clarity that she hadn’t felt in...that she had never felt.  She was not going to stay trapped there forever.  The Fade, the Nightmare, her own doubts and fears...they were not going to win.  She was going to see her friends again, going to see that idiot that she called a best friend again.  It was going to take time, it was going to take planning, but she was not going to roll over and die from a little thing like being trapped in a hellish dimension on the wrong side of the Veil. That was giving up far too easily.

“Alright Fade. I’m Marian Hawke, Champion of Fucking Kirkwall, and a whole bunch of other useless titles.  And I don’t care about your Veil or your rules or any of that other shit.  I’m getting the hell out of here.”

\-------

With the new power in her hands, literally, she started studying the eluvians more closely. The realization dawned that each one, though similar, had a slightly different appearance or design.  Of course what that meant was as much a mystery as how to get the blasted things to open for her.  If she had been a scholar, or one of those stuffy Circle mages who had spent their lives content to be locked up in a library studying unrelentingly boring ancient lore, she might have wanted to take notes, make rubbings,  _ learn _ about the intricacies of the structures of glass and metal and magic. 

But she wanted to get the fuck out of the Fade.  If they led her to a world filled with handsome men who were willing to do her bidding and she could live in luxury for eternity, it didn’t matter if it was still on the wrong side of the Veil.  She’d take a scorching desert with no hope of survival if it meant she didn’t see the blasted Black City every time she looked up at the sky, if the sun would rise or set or  _ anything _ other than the insanity-inducing sameness that she had been trapped with.

_ Eluvians aren’t exactly mirrors, Hawke.  They’re like...oh, they’re like doors.  Though I understand where the confusion comes from; the glass does make them look like mirrors, and of course you can see your reflection, though it does look a little funny and distorted, kind of like looking in a lake or river.  Do you remember when we went to that little river and watched the fish jump around and then Fenris reached in and grabbed one, oooh, it was exciting, and it tasted fairly good, too.  For a fish.  Keeper Marethari always said that fish was important and kept us healthy, but I always thought they just tasted fishy and why are you looking at me like that? I’ve done it again, haven’t I? _

It was no wonder that she had a hard time pulling information out of her memories when it came to the eluvian.  Merrill was wonderful, but her thought process could exhaust a hummingbird for its speed and lack of clear cohesion.  But there was that nugget of information, that they were like portals...like doors. And doors needed keys.  But, as her roguish friends had taught her, all was not lost when you didn’t have a key.  Sometimes it just took the right skill to set the tumblers into place, and the way would no longer be barred.  

She stood back and stared at the mirror.  “So, where is your keyhole? Or more to the point,  _ what _ is it?”  Running her fingers along the frame, she felt the whorls and swirls of ancient design, but whatever meaning they had was lost to the ages.  Brushing across the glass-like material rewarded her with a spark that jumped from the surface to her fingertips.  “Ow!  Now you’re going to attack me, too?”  The sting only lasted a moment, but she felt something surge through her. “Oh good, more mysterious magic, and it’s now inside of me.  This is just wonderful.  Next thing I know my ass is going to start glowing. And I always envisioned spending eternity talking to myself while trying to unlock a magic mirror that’s shocking me with power.  Thanks ever so much, Nightmare!”

The responding silence was deafening.  She had no doubt that the demon could hear her, and this could very well be his form of revenge, knowing that she despised the oppressive quiet.  Or he still just took no notice of her, waiting for his command for that red-lyrium covered son of a bitch. Well, that was fine.  She had work to do.  She rolled her head on her neck, loosening the muscles, then stared once more at the eluvian.  

There was nothing. No keyhole, no weakness, no enticing little crack in the frame that would indicate that something could be inserted and turned to activate it.  So, she did what she always used to do when a door wouldn’t open for her.  She gathered her magic to her, so much more than before, a deliciously heady amount that came almost without her calling to it, and stepped up to the glass.  Placing her glowing hands against the shimmering mirror, she pushed her magic forward, using it like a battering ram of fiery force that streamed from her onto the surface, licks of flame coating the construction as she poured her reserves into it, willing,  _ praying _ that it would work, just once, Maker please, please let it work, let it be enough, let  _ her _ be enough.

A screeching cry came from behind her, and he turned her head just enough to see a small horde of spider-like fearlings heading to where she was standing. “Of course. More damn spiders.”  She was too deeply into the spell to redirect her power, and she didn’t want to lose everything that she had done.

And then; a blue glow effused the eluvian, and she felt the glassy substance give way under her hands.  She almost fell through but caught herself at just the right moment. The chittering noises of the spider-fears drew ever closer, and she turned halfway, sending a wash of white-hot flame across the bodies of the creatures, which screamed as they burned, before stepping through into whatever world lay on the other side of the looking glass.


	52. The music from a farther room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past and the present mingle, bringing much into the light, shrouding others in mystery.

Rowan passed through the eluvian, blinking as the magic cleared from her vision.  The world seemed both brighter and dimmer in comparison.  The color and the light were both there, but there was a sharpness to the Crossroads that she couldn’t put into words.  Coming back...she almost felt as though she had lost something by returning, had her sight adjusted to the world of Thedas as it was.  Which, she wondered briefly, if it was not how it was meant to be.

“‘Tis startling to return, is it not, Inquisitor?” Morrigan asked as she glided towards the door.  “Your life will never be the same, and all because of a moment’s trip through a magic mirror.”

“Yes. And I can’t help but think you knew something about that before I stepped through,” she replied, a question in her voice.

“I had my...suspicions.  I have never stepped through with an elf before, however, so I could not say with any certainty.”  Her hawk-like eyes glanced back at her briefly.  “‘Tis nice to know I was proven correct.”

Rowan moved to follow the woman out of the storage room.  “And what did you prove?”

“Merely that the world we see around us is not necessarily the true face of Thedas.”  She continued, not pausing, heading towards the chambers she shared with her son.  “Beyond that, perhaps  _ you  _ should speak with your bare-headed friend. If he is so knowledgeable on the Fade, he may have some of the answers that you seek.”  

She knew Morrigan was baiting her, trying to get a rise, teasing at a thread to see if she would unravel.  That game had been played in her clan too many times for her not to recognize the pattern.  “I may, in time. For now I have a council to assemble.  I’ll send a runner when we’ve chosen a time when you may join us.”  Rowan couldn’t help but take a small bit of satisfaction when she saw the hitch in the witch’s step. It appeared the advisor took pains to step outside of her role to assume as much control as possible, to tout her superiority. She wondered at the woman’s past, what made her act as she did, almost two entirely different people.  One was the haughty woman with the mysterious airs, and one was the loving mother who fiercely guarded her child.  

_ I wonder which is the true face of the Lady Morrigan. _

“Of course, Inquisitor.” Her voice was as stiff as the Mabari statues in the keep. “Until that time, my son needs me.”  She swept away without a backward glance.

_ Likely both. _

Rowan sought out a runner, and asked him to assemble her advisors as quickly as possible. There was work to be done, and, she guessed, a limited amount of time before they would have to act.  At last they had an advantage, and she planned to use it to gain every advantage they could.

“As you’d say, Hawke, time to stop sitting on our asses. And then you’d probably make something explode, just for fun.”  Rowan smiled at the thought as she turned to make her way to the War Room, and manipulated enough of her magic to make a very small fireball, about the size of a marble, that she spun between her fingers on the way there.

 

************

 

To say that Morrigan was  _ incensed _ would be an understatement. After the gift she had given the Inquisitor, in fact the entire  _ Inquisition  _ not just of her eluvian but of her knowledge…. To be treated as just another  _ advisor _ was untenable. She held secrets beyond counting, treasures of knowledge that could turn the tides of the war against the Elder One who called himself a god.

_ God.  _ How little that pretender knew of the weight of power, the sacrifices necessary to bring divinity into the world. She opened the door to her chambers and stopped as she spotted the raven dark hair of her son. Her boy...and yet not. In him lived the very thing this Corypheus desired; immortality and ancient knowledge, the wisdom of time immemorial. 

He looked up as she approached, eyes ancient and serious, the eyes of a child and the eyes of eternity. 

She should have been terrified. And she was. But not of him, of what he was, what he meant.

_ For  _ him.

In him was housed a being of power beyond the comprehension of mortals. But the frail human body was of her...and of another, but that was neither here nor there, and both were content to leave it as such. He was her son.  _ Her son.  _ Something she had never considered in her younger years, to be honest something she hadn’t even considered when she conducted the ritual that helped to bring him into being. Then he, the idea of him, had been a means to an end, a gathering of knowledge, an experiment and testing of the limits of her power.

And she was rendered powerless when she held him in her arms. Her world was reduced to a pair of fathomless eyes that stared up at her from a face too small for the weight they contained. She loved him. And she had never loved anyone before.

Never loved anyone since. 

“Is everything alright, Mother? You were gone with the Inquisitor a long time.” He set aside his books, gave her his full attention.

She smiled. He brought the expression to her lips with ease, and there was no guile when she grinned at him. “Everything is fine. I was showing her what she needed to know.”

He nodded. “The world between. She needs to be aware of her legacy. The Conductor will make his move to obtain it soon.” Phrases such as that escaped him, knowledge that he couldn’t possibly possess and yet did. It was then she was most harshly reminded that she shared her son with Urthemiel, ancient being worshipped by Tevinter when the Elder One was still a man. More and more she resented its presence crowding her son's mind.

“Yes, I suspect the same.” She had learned to speak with both aspects with one being, though it had taken time to separate the beings in her mind. It was not the boy who conversed with her, though both called her Mother.

“I'm pleased we're helping her. He must not gain that which he seeks. It is not his for the taking.” He blinked, and nothing changed, everything changed.  “Are we eating soon, Mother? It seems like ages since lunch.  Sera said that she would tell me about breeches when we had supper.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes. She’d already had her share of run ins with the Red Jenny who seemed to have no filter...and no limits to her capacity to cause mayhem. It seemed even magic had limits when it came to the prevention of practical jokes. She was still unsure how her chambers became filled with two Mabari puppies, four kittens, and a nug that had a penchant for relieving itself on her shoes.

There was some suspicion, especially with the appearance of the infernal nug, that Leliana had a hand in the entire affair. There would be words with the bard in the future.

Kieran had been delighted. 

Morrigan bided her time.

But she couldn’t deny him the simple joy he found in the companionship of the other members of the Inquisition. 

Even if the elf was infuriating. 

“Yes, of course.  I do have to meet with the Inquisitor and her other  _ advisors-” _ it still bothered her to no end- “but you may go and have supper with the others if you’d like.  Provided you’ve finished your studies for the day.”

“I have.  And the Inquisitor knows that she needs you, and she respects you.  This is her story and you’re here to help her tell it. Don’t be angry with her, Mother. She’s  _ good. _ ” This was said by both of them, Morrigan could tell.  There was the weight of childlike conviction and the voice of ancient knowledge.  Both were in accordance.  She was unable to disagree.  As much as she wished to out of sheer indignation.

“If you believe that strongly about this, I cannot possibly doubt you,” she said.  She put a hand on his head, tousling his hair, and he shot her a look that was pure boyish consternation.  “Now, run along, and I will join you when I am done.”

He stood, and ran towards the door before pausing and running back, impulsively throwing his arms around her waist.  “You won’t regret this, Mother. I promise.”  And he was gone with the speed of youth at his call.

She gathered her notes and observations to her before following at a more leisurely pace. “One can only hope, my son.”  

 

************

 

He sat with his back to the fire, oil and cloths laid out on the table, Bianca splayed out carefully, lovingly so that he could easily reach each part of her, give her the attention that she deserved.  Decades of unwavering loyalty resulted in a companionship that was beyond words, a ritual that was as solemn and religious as any the Chantry could lay claim to.  

A drop of oil slid between his fingers, and then stroked gently along the rail, making her belly glisten in the semi-darkness.  He could feel each imperfection, each microscopic scar and nick that told the stories of their adventures as truly as a dozen of his novels ever could. There was a truth in the whorls of her grain that none of his tales could give lie to, no matter how hard they tried. They were always there, and if he tried to buff them away, pretend they had never existed, he would have destroyed the beauty and balance in her body, ripped away both form and function.

A gentle tug let the string drop from the limb into his hand.  He felt for frays, any signs of weakness, a hint that she might not be as strong as she once was. But no. The only issues he felt as the pads of his fingers ran along the measure of cord were the slight spots where the wax had worn away, making the weapon less supple, making the tune she sang just a half a note off pitch. But it was enough.  He held the tiny disc of wax in his palm and waited for his body's heat to melt it, so that he could run his hand along the interwoven threads, working the coating into them to protect them when he went out to fight another battle, stared down death once more.

_ Stared it down alone. _

Fuck.  His hands stopped their ministrations, fingers suddenly clumsy when the automatic movements were interrupted by the thoughts and emotions he had wanted to avoid. But his traitorous mind refused to let him rest, let him forget, let him simply  _ be _ in the moment where he could stop feeling the neverending breaking of his heart as the days went by and she slipped further and further away from him.

He couldn’t escape it, despite his best efforts to lose himself in nothingness.  Alone was how everything was going to be defined.  It didn’t matter who else was around him, what other people shared his space, his life, there was the time before Hawke, the time with Hawke, and the time he was  _ alone _ .

He had to accept that, to realize that he was not the same person he had been before Adamant. Jaw clenched, he drove his mind to accept the void, go back to the work that was familiar and calming, to leave pain behind. Another drop of oil into the trigger spool and sear.  She needed to be flawless, without a hitch to her step, able to dance in time with his will with no hesitation.  There was a gleam to her pieces as traces of the slippery liquid slid along the metal, even that slight excess making her shimmer in the firelight.  He used his thumb to rub more oil into the stock, watching it soak into the wood, restoring the hidden gleam that age couldn’t diminish, that time could only impotently batter against.  She would always be beautiful.

_ Bianca. _

His hand lost its grip on the stock, and there was a moment of fumbling as she tried to slip from his grasp. Again his thoughts had damaged his calm. His mind was a treacherous bastard, intent on driving him to madness, reminding him of not just of who he had just lost, but the woman who comprised so much of his history, had a hand in making him who he was. He set her down, realizing that he had to follow the train of thought to get even a measure of peace.

For years he had thought that she was the answer to his life, that their ill-fated romance was both what he needed and what he deserved.  He had loved her.  Maker, he had poured every inch of his young heart into their relationship, into the star-crossed need to make her his world.  Hawke had been right, though he would never have admitted it to her.  He felt responsible.  For her, for the romance that he believed he had created as much as any of the stories that he had written down.  And because it was born from him he had to cultivate it, protect it, never forsake it, no matter how far away she ran, or what path she chose away from him...or who she married instead.

He thought his heart had broken when he got the letter saying she had gone back home and married what’s-his-name. It was only later that he realized that humiliation was the reason for the tears that day.

No, his heart had broken when he lay in the Fade, staring up at her, and realized that the woman he had thought he loved for oh so long had never been more than a trumped up memory and a young man’s dream of what his future should have been.  He cried then because he  _ had  _ loved her...and had realized only far too late that the love had faded away, had long ago become a shadow.  That the woman he truly loved, loved whole and fully and eternally, she smelled like fire and ash and had smiled fiercely as a Qunari bastard shoved his sword into her belly.

And she had used the opportunity to shove a fireball into his chest and set him alight from the inside out.

The perfect visage of a dwarven woman paled in comparison to the image of a blood-soaked, dying human who had saved a city even as a blade strove to end her life.  The illusion had shattered and he had walked away from the waking dream. Hawke had saved him again.  Simply by being who she was.

_ Who she had been. _

He had to finish what he had started, though the quiet blankness of the work was shattered, the rest for his weary and wounded mind eluded. He continued the steps with a sigh, the ritual becoming a chore as he thought before each move, questioned the steps his fingers made, though they knew what they were doing better than his consciousness ever would. Slowly, methodically, he reassembled her, straightened her pieces, put her to rights.  Each screw was tested and tightened, each joint lubricated into silent perfection.  He slid the string gently over the notched end of the lath, letting it rest as he followed it with the stringer, pulled the bow into position, and stretched the waxed cording to loop over the notch, as he’d done a thousand times before. 

“Hey, Handsome.  Can’t keep your hands off of me, I see.”  

The string snapped, but he didn’t even feel the sting as he looked up into the eyes of his past. A dozen lines flew through his head, various ways of deflecting the unsettling sensation of having one of the women he was thinking of appear before him as though summoned.

Not the one he wanted, though.  It was as though the Maker was playing a cruel joke on him, mocking him by putting the one he had once wanted to pursue to the ends of Thedas right in his reach, while the one who had been so very close for so very long slipped from his grasp because he hadn’t held on tightly enough.  It left him with very little, in the end, to say.

“Well, shit.”


	53. Of what is past, or passing, or to come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of Hawke's loss reaches the pirate queen.

She crumpled the letter in her fist. The air had turned suddenly stale, and there was a wavering at the corners of her eyes, as though she was slowly going blind. But that wasn't it. They were tears, a foreign feeling she hadn’t experienced since the day she had left home all those years ago.  Nothing had affected her since then.

But Hawke was...she looked down at her fingers clenched on the parchment. It wasn't believable, wasn't real. She had cheated death enough that there should have been another line. She kept looking for the post script that told her Varric was lying, filling her with just so much nugshit before he told her of the whopping lie. She had told them both enough in her time that she would deserve it. 

But no. That was it.  _ Tell Broody _ . Like she had to do that anymore. He read anything he could get his hands on, devoured knowledge like a starving man. Hawke had done that for him, and he loved her for it, the way she loved her for not throwing her out on her ear for that whole Qunari business. And fool that she was, she had given him his letter before looking at her own. The flash of lyrium and wordless cry of pain told her that he had made the same realization she had.

Hawke truly wasn't coming back.

The stinging burned her eyes, and she turned into the wind so she could blame the sea air and salt for the moisture running down her cheeks. She wouldn't cry. It made it true, and she didn't want it to be true. Wanted anything else to be true.

The sun set, turning the water to liquid flame, and around the pair, the crew worked as though the Admiral and first mate weren't statues of grief, staring wordlessly out at the ocean.  Life went on despite it all, and eventually the mindless oblivion of familiar chores let them assuage their pain with burning muscles and aching limbs.

Late in the night they found each other, driving away sorrow with the physical, something they both found easier than talking, than addressing their loss with words.  But somewhere in between the moments of shallow ecstasy, an idea took hold in the Rivaini’s mind.  When they had finally exhausted some of the grief, exorcised the edges of the biting agony that was the death of a loved one, she looked down from above him, eyes dark and serious.

“You’re taking the ship while I go ashore.”

“You’re going  _ there _ , aren’t you?”

“I have to see. And if I’m lucky, I’m going to shoot as many holes in the ass of what took her as I can.”

“And you think you’re leaving me here?”

“I need someone I trust to run her.”

“You trust  _ me  _ with her?”

“After all this time, I should.” The sweat glistened off of their bodies in the lantern light. She lightly ran her nails down his chest, tracing the intricate tattooing that fascinated her fingers and caused him to elicit a growl that was primal and made her stomach clench pleasantly.

“I’m coming with-” She cut him off with her lips on his. 

“You are not. The Inquisitor is a mage for one, and she has a pet Magister. You'd have your fist in his chest before he said two words, and that wouldn't win us any friends.” She slid down his body so that she could lay with her arms on his chest, resting her chin on her hands. “And I have financial interest in keeping you alive.”

“Financial?”  His eyebrow arched in a question.

“Definitely. I'd have to pay good coin at the Rose for the services you provide for free-oh!” With a single move he had flipped her onto her back, pressing her deeply into the mattress. 

“You couldn't afford me,” he said with that dangerous tone that thrilled her to her bones.

“Mmm, you may be right,” she replied, wrapping muscled legs around his waist. With a thrusting twist of her hips she rolled him off of the bed and they landed on the floor with a thud. He grunted slightly at the impact. “Which is the other reason I want you to stay here. I don't need anyone else getting access to your particular...skill set.”

He opened his mouth to continue the banter, but something stilled his voice, caused his face to soften just slightly  “I will stay, Isabela.” He ran his knuckles against her cheek. “You don't have to worry about losing me, as well.”

She laughed away his concern; it was automatic, and callous, and he was still new enough to embracing his emotions that she knew it hurt him. But she didn't know how else to react. She was lying naked atop him, but that didn't mean she could open up to him, take comfort beyond the physical from his companionship. She couldn't afford to be vulnerable, not again, never again.

Losing Hawke gnawed at her heart like some wild beast, and letting Fenris any closer risked the same. He was as reckless if not more so, and had less concern for his own life.  If she let him in, she’d have no heart left to lose, nothing of herself to hold onto.  And so she kept him at an arm’s length, for both their sakes, or at least that’s what she told herself.

His eyes turned hard, and he lifted her off of him, depositing her on the bed. “Do as you will, then. Your ship will be safe enough, of that you’ll need have no concern.”  He walked out the room, no concern for his state of undress, her words causing enough harm that he needed to escape before he lost his temper and some of the humanity that had been hard won through the years.  As it was, the outer wall of her quarters had a sizable splinter in the timbers left by his fist as he made his way down the hall to the chambers he hadn’t slept in for weeks.  He spent the night staring alternatively staring at the letter from Varric and snarling at an internal argument he was having with Isabela, about her stubbornness, and her need to couch everything in indifference and avarice, and how he was too much of a coward to say anything to her.

By three bells he had determined that he would finally stand his ground with her, force her to admit that she felt  _ something _ for someone.  It didn’t even have to be him, just anyone besides herself. She wouldn’t even say why she had to go to Skyhold, just that she was going to, almost as a matter of pride.  He had lost his memories, lost his mind, but she was the one who went through life with a detachment worthy of the most brainwashed of slaves.  And he knew it was all an act, a cloak of protection to hide from any depth of feeling, and that was what angered him the most, that she felt that she  _ had _ to around him, that she didn’t trust him enough to be even slightly vulnerable.

He went up to take his turn at the watch with her at eight bells, but when he reached the deck, he could see the land fading quickly at the aft and didn’t have to be told by the boson that she had taken a longboat and gone ashore, alone. 

“Captain on deck!” The crew snapped to attention. He cursed her cowardice, and his own, even as he acknowledged the men who were now completely under his command.  He would wait for her. She may not return to him, but she would always return to the sea.

“As you were.”


	54. The voice of sovereignty through the fall of forest shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We hear the mind of one ancient and discern the plans of another.

He had watched the other other elf as he worked with Rowan.   _ A blind man teaching a child how to see,  _ he thought with no little derision.  Of course he couldn’t admit the jealousy that stirred beneath the surface, the fact that this pretender could spend countless hours in her company, uninhibited by millennia of secrets that gnawed at him with every waking moment and replayed in his mind when he closed his eyes.  But there was no real threat. His understanding of the ways of the Fade were limited by mortal years, and hers, for all of her considerable power, were limited by the very thing that kept her unplagued by nightmares and demons.  The amulet worked well; he had known the spell would dampen her connection to the Fade, keep her safe and himself protected as well.

She worked until sweat broke out across her brow, and  even then she wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t give in.  The loss of the Champion had cut her to the quick, and while Solas didn’t mind that the mouthy and far too observant woman had become a meal for a Nightmare, he hated to see Rowan in pain. His regrets beyond the fall of Elvhen all revolved around her. Each smile she gave him, ignorant of the memories he had taken, unaware of the role he played to mark her as his as surely as any vallaslin made slaves of the Dalish, tore at his ancient heart, begging him to remember the man behind the quest rather than the catalyst of the journey itself.

_ She cannot follow you where you go, teldirthalelan. Nor would she.  Her home is here, with her short-lived Inquisition and her Commander.  Your path is lonely and solitary.  Close your heart as you promised yourself you would. _

Over and over he had sworn that he would walk away, look away, leave and find a way to stop the Elder One on his own. And each time something stopped him, drew him back, made him hesitate.  

_ You immortalize her story on a wall. You have made this place hers, marked it as belonging to this little wintry elf. You relish your weakness, allow the whole world to witness your misplaced dedication.  Have you forgotten it all for a pair of blue eyes? _

Eyes that made him wish for a different fate.

There was no way of knowing how long he had stood, palette in hand, poised to add the next bit of pigment to the wall. He barely kept from dashing it against the stones, desecrating the testament to her greatness in frustrated rage.

He had no one to blame but himself.

“Who she is will not change with who you are. She helps.  You hurt. You dread, desire, deserve to have her turn away.  But you fear she will not.”

“You cannot know my mind, Cole.”

“You shout your despair.  It blocks everything else, all the other pain. I cannot help you.  You  _ want _ to hurt.” His voice was almost reproachful.  

“I have no choice in the matter,” Solas replied simply, putting down the trowel and  wiping his hands on a nearby rag before folding it neatly beside the supplies.  “It is my fate.”

Cole sighed, a deep sound that carried far more weight than his slight body should have been able to produce.  “It is until you choose a different one.” The following silence was so complete, Solas was sure that the spirit had left until he turned and saw him staring, seeming to make up his mind about something before continuing.  “Or you could bind me.”

He actually stepped back at those words.  “Bind you? You have no idea what you’re asking-”

“I do! I don’t want to become a demon. The Wardens could bind me, bend me, break me.  And then you wouldn’t be alone, even when you leave. I am not her but I could help.”

“I will not bind you, Cole.  There are other ways that we can keep you from being held against your will. I cannot enslave you even to keep you safe.”

The boy pressed on.  “I would not be a slave; there are no marks on my face. I want this so I can still be Cole...I wouldn’t be Cole if I was bound.  I’d forget.”

“We will speak to the Inquisitor when she has finished her meeting in the War Room.  We can help you without making you linked to someone else.”  He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “You will not be taken.”

“And you will still leave.”  There was no censure, just a statement of fact.

“When the time comes.”

“Then take me with you. She can help almost as well as I can, and you  _ need _ help.”

“This is not your burden, I-”

“Pride for Pride’s sake,” Cole said with more venom than Solas had heard from him before, “hate, hurt, howl at the sky in your pain borne of no one but yourself. You have made the scales that judge you unworthy, no other. I will not hate you to serve your name.” As he spoke the last words he left Solas standing once again alone in his tower, with only his mind that mocked him at every turn for daring to dream he was more than the Wolf he had been named. Dread. Pride. Doom upon all the world.

“It bears out,” he said to the echoing chamber. “It is what must be. There is no changing it.”  His jaw clenched and unclenched slowly, trying to bring him some measure of calm in the maelstrom of emotions that he kept constantly simmering just below the surface of placidity and aloofness.

As had become his weakness, his shame, he soothed himself with cooling thoughts of  _ her, _ memories of her touch, her smile, the lack of judgement in her eyes even when she  _ knew _ as they stood in the Fade. And once again picked up his trowel, losing himself in the silence, broken only by the soft scraping sounds upon the stone.

*************

“And where is the Elder One going now, Morrigan?” Leliana asked quietly.  She had liked the young Witch a decade before, when they had travelled together on the road to Denerim.  Her prickly nature hid the complexities of a woman who was conflicted as to her place in the world.  The Nightingale understood that feeling all too well.  Was she sister, thief, bard, spy?  Was she all of them, or none? 

It was why, when they had crossed paths after the Blight ended, Leliana invited her into her circle.  The woman had chafed at the offer, until she elaborated.  Under the Nightingale’s wing, she would be offered protection.  She...and her son. Morrigan had been ready enough to submit to living in the luxury of the Winter Palace when that offer was made.  Motherhood had changed her fundamentally, and Leliana was glad that she had found some of the meaning in life that she had sought when she had Kieran.

The Left Hand of the Divine didn’t know who the boy’s father was, but she had suspicions when she looked back on those final days before they met the Archdemon and were triumphant. The averted eyes. The subdued behavior.  The thousand small tells which she detected that made her excellent at her job.

The secretive movement between chambers in the dark of the night. She had paid good coin when that information came to her.  The Maker may have had a plan for her, but she was not a fool, and she was a creature of habit.  It was always wise to know the goings on of those around her. Ignorance would get you killed.

Ignorance would kill the woman who saved you from yourself.

“My research has led me to believe that there is another such eluvian in the Arbor Wilds, in an ancient temple of the goddess Mythal, lost to time.  It is there that the Elder One will travel to obtain his trophy.”

“The Arbor Wilds?” Cullen looked down at the map that lay spread out across the table.  “It will take weeks to assemble enough troops to launch any type of effective offensive.  We are still reeling from Adamant.”  He was silent for a moment. “And Dagna is still researching the information that we brought back from the Red Templar hold.” A shadow passed over his features, fleeting, but Leliana noted it nonetheless.  The Commander was a strong man, one of the strongest that she knew, but even he had his limits. He had given up lyrium, given up his order, and watched another who had been one of his brothers betray him, become the pawn of Corypheus.  That he hadn’t broken was a testament to both his dedication to the Inquisition...and to the woman who led them.  

Leliana glanced over at the elven woman.  Admittedly she had had her doubts when the Lavellan mage had fallen out of the rift at Haven. But she had proven herself time and again to care deeply...perhaps too deeply at times about the lives and well-being of others.  It had pained her to hand over the scathing letters to the Herald, abuses written in a scrawling hand that were not any easier to bear because of distance.  When she had decried taking any more, Leliana read them still.  And grew ever angrier that they would dare to speak of a woman who had saved countless lives with her sacrifice with such disdain.

When the first rumblings came of unrest near Wycome, she had been tempted to stay silent on the matter and let the clan meet its not undeserved fate.  It was only Rowan’s own words when they had stood in the cold air in Haven that had kept her from doing just that.  It was essential to show mercy in the heart of so much single-minded death and treachery.  And so the Inquisition had reached out and with her machinations and Josephine’s carefully constructed connections had begun to disentangle the Lavellans from danger.

Ah, Josie.  Who knew her likely better than any other in the room.  Perhaps better at times than she knew herself. Because Josephine remembered her, had known her throughout her many stages in life. And she had never turned her back, never done more than shake her head in disappointment when Leliana chose the bloodier option to solve a problem.  

Josie kept her human.

“Unfortunately, Lady Herald I have few connections in the areas surrounding the Arbor Wilds. But those I do have I am more than happy to contact, to see if they have any knowledge of the Elder One’s movements.”

It was time to step forward, make known the thoughts that had been assembling since she had learned of their next field of battle. “We have among us a group with a particular set of skills that would be ideal to send into this situation and report back to us. They are perhaps the most elite of our scouts, and if any can get through the Arbor Wilds and send us movements and updates, it would be them.  With your permission, Inquisitor?”

Rowan nodded.  “As long as they are volunteering for this mission.  There is so much unknown ahead of them, I don’t want-”

“My Lady Herald,” Leliana interjected gently but firmly. “They are all here of their own accord.  They serve the Inquisition...they serve  _ you. _ They do so because you are deserving of their loyalty and they wish to save their home as much as any of us.  They will gladly die for your and for the cause of saving Thedas.” She smiled, a slow grin that was genuine, but held an edge of definite ruthlessness.  “Though I do not think you need to fear for their lives.   They will not be easy to kill.”


	55. Where the Leaves Whisper and the Branches Sigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scouts are sent to the Arbor Wilds, and familiar faces appear to aid in the Inquisition's cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This beautiful chapter was written by my magnificently talented friend, [Eisen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen). Please. Read all of his works. If you already have...read them again.

She pulled off her coif with an irritated jerk, causing her hair to come undone and fall against her back and neck. The word she’d have used to describe the motion was  _flopped_. Absent of all grace. She was normally proud of how her hair - and almost uniquely hers - would cascade over her shoulders like a veil when undone. But this was not the case today. Not in a stifling hot jungle where the air was so humid that it was hard to tell whether one was slick from sweat or condensation.

So her hair flopped, wet strands sticking together. She ran her fingers through it to try and get back some measure of control, to tie it up again, only to notice one of their party watching her. It was the she-elf, her reddish-brown short cropped hair mocking Elisa’s with its practicality.

“Not one word, Elf,” Elisa growled, finally managing to tie her hair up again into a tail. The bitch had told her that she wouldn’t fare for more than an hour in the attire she’d been wearing when they left Skyhold. Elisa of course, had not listened. Partly because her current garb had done the job throughout her career with and before the Inquisition, but mostly, because her pride would not have allowed her to, after the tone the elf had taken.

Elisa used their short pause to strip most of the padded layers from her outfit until she was wearing little more than her smalls, hose, a thin tunic, and her armour. Even in that state, with no breeze to speak of, every movement just felt disgustingly sticky.

The man Charter had put in charge of their little band sat down on a moss-consumed log as soon as she had finished, an almost comically-large hat hiding his dark-skinned face as he began the process of stringing his monstrosity of a bow. The only weapon that could match it would be the thing that author, Tethras, lugged around, or perhaps the Commander’s trebuchets. Thornton continued his routine by waxing the coiled strands to help them weather the humid air better. The place would wreck their weapons without proper maintenance.

“I know it sometimes tastes like month-old bread, but the Dalish have a head on their shoulders when it comes to the wild. If nowhere else,” he commented, voice low enough not to carry. “This place will end you if you let it; watch them, listen to them and do as they do if you want to survive the days ahead.”

Elisa was no wet-behind-the-ears greenhorn, but something about how he said it had the man’s solemn words sending a shiver down her spine. She nodded slowly and pulled out her arming sword and war pick to begin her own maintenance routine, silently grateful that her shield would not need any attention.

 

-

 

“Time to move, girl.”

Elisa barely managed to stop herself from jumping up as she was roused from sleep by the low rough voice of their leader.

It was pitch black. There was no campfire, so that Corypheus’ men would not spot them. They had left Inquisition-controlled territory two days before. She had barely slept since then, not because of nerves, but because of the nightmare combination of heat, humidity and thousands of bugs. Even as she was checking her equipment straps she had to swat at midges and mosquitoes to keep them away from her face and any other exposed skin.

Hall, the other archer accompanying them, had fished a two-foot long giant centipede from his sleeping roll. Elisa was glad it had chosen his, instead of hers - she was sure she would not have reacted as dismissively has he had. She had never considered the place would rank up there with the Fallow Mire and Western Approach when it came to areas she would rather not have to travel through again, but the constant threat of snakes, poisonous plants and insects convinced her otherwise.

They moved out of the hollow they had camped in, though the term was giving the reality far too much credit, without any actual camping equipment or fire to speak of. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, using the sheen on large waxy leaves to guide her where the moonlight did not break through the foliage overhead.

The other elf, Cillian, was leading the group, hood pulled up to hide his stark white hair from the moonlight. Elisa found that she liked the odd man. He was not exactly reserved, but he would not push himself into the spotlight; he walked the line of interaction admirably. That he did not treat her as if she was ‘shemlen scum’ did its part as well.

She had at first questioned the composition of their crew, but it suddenly made sense, struggling through the environment as they were. Thornton was an experienced soldier and scout, able to adapt to almost any situation as it was required. Neria, the she-elf, was an absolute bitch and everything that defined the Dalish stereotype, but she knew the wilds, knew what signs to look for and understood the language of these untamed lands. Hall it seemed, was completely at home. From his interactions with Cillian and Neria she had deduced that he had lived with the Dalish for a time; he was also surprisingly knowledgeable about Darkspawn, which either meant he had Grey Warden ties, or was in Ferelden during the Blight. The only one truly out of place in their group was herself, with absolutely no experience in dealing with this kind of terrain.

Cillian held up a hand, his oddly-coloured gauntlet barely reflecting the full moon’s light. The group came to a halt. Thornton moved forward and Elisa overheard the two conversing in hushed tones.

Thornton returned shortly and with a jerk of his chin indicated that they should draw back a bit. Cillian remained where he had called the halt, leaning against a tree and looking out ahead.

“Red Templars ahead,” he started, voice low. “Cillian believes they’re at least at battalion strength and the bastards seem immune to the climate, or just don’t care - most are still in full armour.”

“Coulda guessed that from how they didn’t seem to mind the frostbite in Emprise,” Elisa muttered.

“Corypheus is driving them hard,” Hall muttered, “I doubt that they can afford to pay much attention to such things with that creature always looming in the shadows.”

“The reasons don’t matter,” Thornton cut in. “What matters is that our own troops will need to come similarly prepared, or be ready to fight at a disadvantage when they arrive. This needs to be relayed to the Commander.”

He looked around at those assembled. “Since we can’t afford to engage a group  that large without news of our presence spreading, we’ll need to shadow them quietly and see how they remain in contact with other groups. Once we know that, and the opportunity is right, we can sever the chains of communication and cut off this head, maybe find out what their objective was and secure it for ourselves. Once we’ve established a position we can use as a base of operations, we can send word back to the Nightingale.”

Everybody nodded their understanding, and the group dispersed into the foliage around them until only Cillian and Elisa were left. The elf smiled at her, his face-markings giving the shift of expression an eerie undercurrent.

“Well then, Scout Cousland, are you ready to be a as a puff of smoke in a gale?” he asked, before vanishing with a whisper of fabric and rustling undergrowth.

Elisa grinned.


	56. Like the ghost of a dear friend dead Is Time long past.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past has an unsettling way of insinuating itself into the present.

“I sent you letters. We had a system.  And the system  _ worked,  _ Bianca.  Why would you risk everything to come here? Do you have a death wish?” 

She smiled, the grin that always seemed to have a secret behind it, something that would change your very way of life if you only knew what it was.  And she was the keeper of it, deciding if you were worthy to share with or not.  “How could I resist the opportunity to see my favorite Surfacer? You were  _ so close. _ ” She moved towards him, and he caught the metallic tinge of her profession, and the pungent oils and lubricants that would never quite wash out of either skin or clothing.  She smelled like creation.

“ _ So close _ can get us  _ so dead, _ or didn’t you think about that before you left what’s his name in Val Royeaux to come have a chat with me?”

Her pout was a perfect moue of hurt and flirt.  “Here I’d thought you’d whisk me away in your arms and we’d take up where we left off last time...you do remember last time, don’t you?”

_ The heat of the fires outside, the thrill of danger if they were discovered, their cries of abandon as he- _

“I remember last time.  I also remember it was going to  _ be _ the last time.”

“And yet somehow it never is.  You know I’m irresistible.” Her grin was temptation, drawing in his drowning heart and offering succor. “And you’re not so bad yourself.”  She put a hand on his bicep, and he tensed involuntarily.  “The years have been kind.”

He didn’t step away from her, because the feeling was almost familiar, almost right.  But. Not. Quite.  “If you think the past decade and a half has been kind, then your sense of morality is even more skewed than I thought it was, Bianca.”

The pout deepened, and she did it prettily. She did everything prettily...and with a purpose.  “You know what I mean.  You always liked to misinterpret me. Part of me thinks you enjoy it.”

_ It was hard to misinterpret ‘I want prestige more than passion.  Luxury more than love.’  _ But he held his tongue.  He tasted blood as he did so, but he wouldn’t get into a pissing contest with her in the middle of Skyhold.  There were too many witnesses, and in a place where the stone was being tended by those who knew too much and had too many connections, it didn’t pay to draw attention to themselves. He took her arm, none too gently. “Not here.”

“Really, manhandling? I can kick your authoring ass, Teth-”

“Not  _ here, _ Bianca.”  She wanted to keep talking, just to be defiant, but something in the look he was giving her must have stilled her tongue.  He believed a little more in the Maker at that point because nothing short of a miracle would have gotten her to listen to reason.

He steered her through Solas’ rotunda and down into one of the secluded rooms under the keep.  There was no guarantee of privacy anywhere in Skyhold, but it was the best he could do.  He turned her to face him.  “Now, talk. What in the Void are you doing here and what would drive you to risk suicide to tell me in person?”

Bianca seemed to be weighing her response.  “I….” She stopped, sighed, continued.  “I found out more about the red lyrium.  Enough to make the trip.  The Templars...they found the thaig. Bartrand’s Folly.  And really, that’s the name you came up with?  Why didn’t you just put a sign at the entrance saying ‘Red Lyrium Found Here’ maybe with some arrows pointing the way? It’s no wonder someone let it slip, really...” her voice faded as the world seemed to dim, her words registering.

Varric could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat.  It was his fault.  His fault that Corypheus had the power he needed to feed his Templars.  To make Samson damn near invincible.  To keep him able to take over the Wardens.

It was his fault Hawke died.

Something of what he was feeling must have shown on his face because a look of genuine concern crossed Bianca’s.  “What’s going on in that too clever mind of yours, Varric?”  He didn’t respond right away, and she put a hand on his cheek.  He flinched at the touch and she removed it. “It’s about what’s her name, isn’t it? That human you wrote about. Haw-”

“Don’t.” His voice was Stone.

Her eyes widened. “You’re not blaming  _ yourself _ for all of this are you?  I mean, anyone could have let the location slip.  And you didn’t make her-”

“Don’t, Bianca.”  There was no inflection in his words, and that more than anything gave her pause.  Varric was always filled with life, everything he said painted stories and wove worlds out of the air.  The lack of...anything...that genuinely frightened her, and she took an involuntary step back.

She had her own sort of realization then, something that she had never thought would come to pass.  She had lost him.  Bianca Davri had  _ lost _ . And she didn’t lose.  Anything. She was the best at everything she did.  What she touched became better for having been in her presence, who she met was greater for being known by her.  People wanted to bask her presence, her abilities, the skill and the beauty and intelligence she knew she had.  

But Varric didn’t anymore.

And in fear’s place came anger, the knowledge that she had been replaced by a human, and a dead one at that. Some oversized, flawed magic-flinging bit of trash from that cesspool Varric called a home...it was almost too much to bear.  Her eyes flashed with indignation. “If you don’t want to know what I’ve found out, then forget it.  I’ll go back to Val Royeaux and Bogdan and you can have fun running around every backwoods town in Thedas just to try and keep the crazed warriors in line.”

Her words, and the barely controlled fury behind them brought him back enough to stop her.  “No.  I need-we need to stop the flow of that shit.  We’ll go to Kirkwall if we have to.”

“That’s hardly necessary, and it’s the other reason I’m here.” He needed her again, and the feeling gave her a certain sense of satisfaction.  She couldn’t fight a ghost, but she could be what he needed when he needed it.  That would do for a start. Exorcism could come later.  “They’re bringing it out through Valammar, which is how it’s getting distributed so quickly.”

“But we’ve already been through there.  I thought we had cleaned the place out, and all we found were a load of Carta assholes and Darkspawn fighting over the place.”

“I suspect you didn’t exactly go digging around any of the little side tunnels, or you’d have seen that there’s a path from there all the way back to the Folly.  I do my research, Varric. You know that better than anyone. At least...I thought you did.” She made sure that the hurt came through enough that there was no mistaking it.

“No, you’re right.  After all of these years I should know better than to question you when you say you know something.”  He gestured back to the door.  “I’m sorry for doubting you.  And we need to let Grace know. Now, before this shitstorm gets any worse.  If we can put a stop to that supply line before our next run in with that bastard, it might be the advantage we need.”

“Who’d have thought?” she said with a grin as she followed him out and up the stairs again.  “Bianca Davri saves the day.”

 

***************

 

_ Like the crossbow _ seemed to be ridiculous statement, but she still barely stopped herself.  Rowan wasn’t an idiot.  She could tell the two of them had history.  The way they held themselves, the dwarven woman immediately pushing herself to the forefront, Varric looking slightly embarrassed...it was obvious to even a casual observer.

_ There was always a story he wouldn’t tell, Lavellan.  I’m sure it’s about a woman, I’m sure it’s an unhappy one, and I’m sure I’d like to wring her undoubtedly perfect little neck for the damage she caused. _

_ You had that one more right than you’ll ever know, Hawke. _

“A pleasure.  If you’re a friend of Varric’s, I’m glad to know you.”  It wasn’t precisely true, but she had been working on being diplomatic.

“You obviously haven’t met many of Varric’s friends, then.”  There was a smirk on the woman’s face that made her bristle. It was a not-so-subtle jab.  

“I’ve met the ones that  _ mattered _ ,” she replied before she could stop herself.  Apparently Hawke had no small amount of influence on her in the time they had known one another.  Diplomacy was not going to win the day, she suspected, but there was a certain satisfaction in seeing the smile slip off of Bianca’s lips.  

“Bianca’s got a lead on the lyrium source, Grace,” Varric interjected before the conversation broke down completely.  That brought her back to the business at hand, and the pair gave Rowan a summation of what the woman had discovered.

“Alright then. I’ll let the Commander know, and we’ll assemble a team to head there tomorrow.” She wanted to go right away, but the lengthening shadows told her that it was foolish to head out before the next day.  

“That’s fine, you take your time and go through all of the official channels you Inquisition types need.  I’ll see you there, maybe thin out the ranks a little bit before you come in and take all the credit.”

“Bianca, you don’t-” 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Varric. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.  Besides, like you said, the less we’re seen together, the better.  But I’m not staying on the sidelines for this one.  And you look like you need all the help you can get.”  She breezed by them, pausing slightly before Rowan.

“Surprised that humans would let an elf tell them what to do, but the world is filled with the unexpected. See you at Valammar.”  They stared after her as she disappeared down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

“Can we trust her, Varric?”

There was silence for a moment.  “Can we really trust anyone?”

“Varric….”

“I wish I had good answer for you, Grace.  But she wants to help.  If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have come.”

“That’ll have to do.”  She headed towards Cullen’s office to outline what she had just been told.  “I’ll see you in the morning, Varric.”

“Can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”  He left for his rooms, crossbow on his back, the weight familiar and comforting, the only thing in his life at the moment that was. There wasn’t going to be any sleep for him that night, no dreamless reprieve from his thoughts before they left to face hordes of Templars fat on red lyrium.  

Red lyrium he had brought to the surface, through ignorance, the catalyst of so much of what was occurring around him, including bringing Bianca back full force into his life.

There was no escaping the past that had come back to haunt his present.

There was no escaping the loss, and the blame that was laid at his feet.

He stared at the wall in his room through the night, unseeing, until the knock came to announce that it was time to face Valammar.

 


	57. U'lea o bane jushen Danem'mis tuemah'sal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations come in many forms, and the weapons wielded may not always be of steel.

The sword was a blur, cutting down one after the other. Darkspawn...hurlock, genlock, one monster after another fell to her blade.

 

_ Thrust, lunge, back. _

 

Weight change on a foot allowing her to pivot, put strength as well as speed behind the attack. Another went down in a spray of obsidian blood that painted armor and shield black.

The next sprang up, occupying the void left by the previous.

It shrieked her death into her face.

It gurgled its death as she punched it back with her shield and Varric's bolt found its home.

“Watch it, Seeker. You're letting them too close for comfort.” He punctuated his words with another shot from the crossbow, another Darkspawn dropped.

She didn’t waste her breath responding, merely continued dealing death and keeping her Inquisitor safe. Monster after monster shed its life as her sword flashed.

 

_ Spin. _

 

_ Plant. _

 

_ Lunge. _

 

_ Thrust. _

 

_ Do not think.   _

 

_ React. _

 

_ Repeat. _

 

Each slice with her blade, each thrust, parry, deflection was instinct, adrenaline, a lifetime of endless punishing practice repeated until she and sword and shield were indivisible. 

The Darkspawn were beaten back time and again, though their numbers would swell after each wave was lying bleeding and broken before them. It felt like a never ending torrent, and her arm ached and throbbed at the constant battling.  But that wasn’t something to concentrate on.  Neither was the sweat that slid cooly down her neck where her hair had plastered to her head, or the rock that had somehow become lodged in her shoe, which would make her limp.

 

_ Later. _

 

She could worry about all of those petty mortal issues when they were finished. When the Herald was safely back home. 

When the war was won.

A crackle of lightning sent another creature careening over the edge, and she raised her shield as an axe came far too close to her face for comfort.  

 

_ Concentrate! _

 

She pushed back as it tried to retrieve its blade, and took the opportunity to thrust her shoulder up and into its chest, toppling it over, barely keeping herself from following after. 

She was getting distracted, and distracted would get them all killed.

“Get those boards up, Grace!” Varric yelled as he took aim at another hurlock that was trying to reach the Inquisitor before she could seal off the tunnel where they had gained access. The rest of the party moved as a unit, Seeker and Author and the Tevene, to protect Rowan’s flank as she performed her magic. Her blue-hued spells moved the barrier in place, sealing it with a ward to keep the legions of tainted creatures from pouring into the Hinterlands, spreading Blight once again across a land that had only recently reached a decent state of recovery.

They didn't like the Inquisitor's efforts to keep them at bay. Howling their rage they surged against the planks, pushing, trying to weaken her work. “Enough!” Rowan’s voice carried over the screeching and growls, and in front of her a swirling vortex of green opened, like a small tear in the Fade of her making. As Cassandra beat back a final genlock, the sounds rose in a high pitched crescendo before a pop signaled the closing of the spell, and they were left once again to the relative silence of Valammar. Water still rushed around them, the white noise of moving nature, but the living nightmare had stopped its cacophony. She allowed herself to relax, but only infinitesimally.  Danger was inevitable in the Deep Roads.

“We always did end up in the nicest places, Varric.” The dwarven woman who had led them all down to the Deep Roads entrance once again appeared from around a corner, fitting her bow back in place over her shoulder. “You know how to show a girl a good time. No wonder the elf here keeps you around. But if we're done playing with Darkspawn, there's some real work to do.”

She did not have the patience for subterfuge.  There had been enough of the Game in her life that she detested it; nuance, double talk, hyperbole, it was all a ridiculous farce.  Life was simpler when words were just spoken.  It may have meant that others considered her lacking in the finer points of social grace, but she simply didn’t give a shit what others thought of her.  The Davri woman seemed to relish it, and her power to manipulate.  It made Cassandra grit her teeth in irritation. 

It was empty vindication when the truth was revealed about Bianca’s involvement in letting red lyrium loose upon the world.  Even when faced with her own folly, the woman was an expert in deflection and equivocation.  In truth it was rather hard to watch, the desperate struggle to not accept blame in the face of overwhelming evidence.   

Retribution would not remove the hurt from their friend.  It would not solve the problem of the red lyrium that had been spread throughout the countryside.

But there would have been a certain cold satisfaction in wiping the smirk off of her face.

Rowan put a hand on her arm after the parting remark, or more precisely threat that she had directed at the Inquisitor.  Cassandra already had her hand at her sword, ready to declare the woman a danger to the Inquisition.

“She is not worth either bloodshed or a trial,” her Herald said quietly, voice tinged with anger and sadness.  “In the end she is little more than an unwitting fool who has suffered for her own mistakes.  And in making them, she has lost something of great value, something I don’t believe she’ll ever get back.”

“What is that?”

“Varric’s trust.”

 

\-----

 

He had been able to keep his rage in check until they returned to Skyhold. She had even tried to leave without saying anything, to give a parting shot to Grace ostensibly about his well-being before fleeing back to her fortress in Val Royeaux.  He didn’t give her the chance, meeting her part way across the bridge that led out of Skyhold. Her eyes widened when he appeared, leaning against the entryway to one of the watchtowers, but she recovered quickly, opening her mouth with more honeyed lies.  He didn’t give her the chance.

“There were none of your arrows in those Darkspawn.”

“You must be-”

“None. Of. Your. Arrows.” He enunciated each word carefully. 

“What are you saying, Varric?”

“I'm saying, Bianca, that this mess, this  _ huge _ fucking catastrophe on our hands is at least in part my fault.  But in a bigger way, it's yours. If you had just said something in your letters, we could have been prepared for a problem, been on the offense. And to top it off, while we’re sweating and bleeding and potentially dying, what were you doing? Sitting back and taking stock? Planning your next great invention? Because you sure as the Void weren’t lending a hand to keep us from being Darkspawn fodder.”

“You’re. . .you’re actually blaming me for this mess, aren't you?” She tilted her head to the side, almost more confused than angry at the turn of events. Almost. “You were never like this before. Never melancholy and morose and angry. You were easier to deal with before you met that human.”

“This has  _ nothing _ to do with Hawke,” he spat, the twist in his chest almost familiar by that point whenever her name was mentioned.  “This has everything to do with your complete  _ lack _ of consideration for anyone besides yourself.”

Her eyes narrowed.  “I came to you-”

“You came to me to cover your own ass.  What you had done had grown beyond even your power to charm your way out of it, so you decided that it was time to have someone else clean up after you.  You couldn’t hide it anymore.  I’m not a fool, Bianca.” That felt like as big of a lie as any he had ever told. “You didn’t do anything out of sense of altruism.  You haven’t done anything without weighing each option in your favor since you put your hands on number fourteen and brought her to life.”

“I  _ love you, _ you ass,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height. “I came here because I was worried, because words in a letter weren’t enough!  Because...because I needed to see you again.”  There was a tremble in her voice at the end, and he softened his tone slightly, cursing himself all the while.

“Who do you miss, Bianca? Me?” He stepped up to her, out of the shadow of the stone wall.  “I’m not the young idiot who fell in love with a genius all those years ago. And you’re not the bright-eyed girl who was ready to defy the world so that we could be together.”  He shook his head sadly.  “We haven’t been those people in twenty years.  Not since the wedding you showed up for wasn’t ours.”

“Varric….” She was at a loss for once, looking like she had been slapped.  “I don’t...why are you saying this? I thought what we had was special.”

“It  _ was  _ special.  And unique. And tragic.” A deep breath. “ And it’s over.  It has been for a long time.  We just never said the words.” He laughed humorlessly. “Seems I never say goodbye at the right time.”

Her spitting retort died at the pain in his voice.  For a moment he was the boy again, and she the girl, and she remembered what he had meant to her beyond the distant sure possession, the dedicated star-crossed lover.  And she wanted…. “Don’t.  Don’t say goodbye. Not to me, not to  _ her. _  If she’s anything like me...don’t put anything past her.”  She moved and put a hand on his face, feeling the change the years had made, but recognizing him underneath the lines and scars.  “Because you’re worth defying the odds for.”  She leaned in then, brushing her lips against his, just a moment to take a final memory, before slipping past him.

Bianca Davri never cried.   The moisture in her eyes was the light of the too-bright sun, nothing more.

 


	58. Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eluvians take us to places beyond our imaginings, and we find allies in the most unexpected...places.

The magic of the eluvian was unlike anything she had felt before.  It was heady, disorienting, the magic sliding along her skin like oil.  It filled her senses, blinding her, making her deaf, coating her tongue with the slick fullness of something...wild, untamed. It was like she was consuming the Fade itself, and it tasted of dry leaves, the musk of wild animal, and a hint of fire burning along her tastebuds. It would have been unpleasant had it not been so filled with power that she wanted to drink deeply, bathe herself in its essence.

And in an instant, the feeling was gone, as if it had never been, as she stepped through to the other side.

The first thing she noticed was the silence. It was complete, total, and for a moment she wondered if she had actually gone deaf, but a quick click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth dispelled that fear. The total quiet was compounded by the nothingness that greeted her. Oh, she could see alright, trees that looked like theatrical backdrops, they were so flat and indistinct. But there was no  _ smell, _ no scent to tell her ‘you are in a place.’ Even her clothes, which should have smelled like the worst parts of Lowtown, gave off no odor.  What was this? “Fuck.”

“Who’s there?”  The voice was strong, but distant, and she couldn’t pinpoint the direction it came from.

“Where am I?” she called back, hoping for an answer, and honestly just happy that there was someone else to talk to.

“You answer my question first.”  Hawke moved towards where she  _ thought  _ the voice was coming from, and the trees seemed to slide away before her as she walked. Inwardly she groaned. More magic. It was as though she had simply traded in one part of the Fade for the other, though without the Black City hovering overhead, that simply couldn’t be true.

“I’m Hawke."

There was a palpable silence. "Assuming you're not a giant talking bird, I don't think we've met."

"Meaning you've met a giant talking bird before?"

The silence again, though this one definitely had an edge of irritation. Hawke smirked to herself.

"So I have a comedian in my dreams now?" it finally responded, and Hawke thought that the voice was female. It reminded her a bit of someone...she wasn’t sure who, but it was vaguely familiar.

"I don’t know where you think we are, but this is no dream."

"How would you know?"

"I'm a ma-" she stopped herself, thought better of her response. "I'm a scholar of the Fade. I know a thing or two about dreams. And if there's no Black City, there's no Fade, which means no dreaming."

"Yeah," she responded slowly, as though she was talking to someone unstable, "that makes perfect sense. Of  _ course _ this isn't a dream."

"You seem unconvinced.”

“I’m not the type to take the word of a stranger who’s appeared out of nowhere, sorry.”  Slowly she came into view through the fog and Hawke could make out features.  Blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin, and she was tall, taller than she herself was, which was impressive.  She wore some kind of cropped black cloak with a metal clasp that ran up the entire front, and the hood of the piece was dropped back.  A strange, angular red and white emblem sat over her right breast.  All of it was foreign to her, alien...except for the look of exasperation on the woman’s face. That she was all too familiar with.  “Is this some kind of test? Or am I losing my mind?”

“From everything I’ve experienced in life...it’s probably both.”  Hawke didn’t feel the...pull of magic around the other woman, but then again, when she tried, her own abilities seemed to be almost completely out of reach.  The feeling was unnerving, and it set her teeth on edge.  “Or we could be trapped in some demon’s idea of a joke.”  Even as she said it, she felt that it wasn’t true.  There was something off, different, alien to where she was, but it wasn’t demonic, or it was at least unlike any she had come across before.

The other woman rolled her shoulders, looking like she was about to respond, but suddenly straightened, the bearing so like Aveline’s when she was about to launch an attack that Hawke would have laughed if the movement hadn’t also meant potential danger.  She cursed her inability to call her spells to her. Trying to grasp that power from the Fade was like trying to drag a rope through molasses with gloves on. It was almost impossible to get a decent grip.  That, more than anything, told her that she was more than likely not somewhere on either side of the Veil.  “What is it?”

She put up an arm, tilted her head, seemed to be listening for...something.  Then she slid her eyes back to look at Hawke. “You don’t hear it?”

“Hear-” and then she did. At first it sounded like the rustling of leaves, and indistinct sound, almost ignorable, except there had been silence before, so even the slight noises meant that something had changed. And then they built, rising up from nothingness to become whispers, vague, but they had  _ tone  _ to them, as though the words that weren’t being heard had weight, meaning, a tinge of desperation.

And one stood out from the rest, made her teeth clench, her hands once again grasp for the magic that  _ wouldn’t come whywon’titcomeIneeditohnopleasenothiscan’tbehappeningitcan’tbereal. _

_ “Mari.” _ The crackling of dead leaves formed that word, that name that no one called her, that nickname that she hadn’t heard in a decade, not since fate had deigned to rip that part of her life away.  She trembled. Hawke didn’t tremble, didn’t show fear, didn’t do any of those normal human things that came so easily to so many. She threw herself in front of danger, protected others from it without considering the cost to herself.  She did this all because of  _ her. _

_ “Mari.” _

“No!” The faceless, formless whisper mocked her, repeating that one word over and over again, with that slightly pleading tone, the last thing she had heard before it was done and the world lost its brightest color, except for the red that started to permeate every aspect of her life. That stood out like a light in pure darkness, had for years, and every time it seemed to start to fade, something brought it back, made it real again, reminded her. And s he was a child again, green and filled with confidence and the idea that the world, as crazy and dangerous as it was, couldn’t touch her or the ones she loved.

“Hey! Knock it off! If I’m dreaming, I’m the only one allowed to go crazy, understand?” The clipped tone of the other woman pulled her back from the rapidly increasing spiral of despair with a snap.  The whispers immediately retreated, still there, but relegated to the background, no longer sucking her under. She blinked.

“I-”

“Yeah, I know. Not my first time through this.” She sounded almost casual about it, but there was a tightness in her voice and her face that Hawke knew meant it affected her.  Deeply. “It’ll have to try a new trick if it wants me to go down the road to total insanity.”  As she said it, a flash of...something drew both of their attention.  “Not this again,” she said with a groan.

“And I thought being alone in the Fade was bad.” Hawke waited for the other woman to move on, but she just stopped and looked at her, expression unreadable.  

“Well, come on.  I’m not leaving an unknown on my tail.  You can come along or I can take you out right now. Your choice.”  There hadn’t been any obvious change in the woman’s demeanor as she spoke, but again there was that sense of...readiness...that spoke of a life that had seen too much violence.  She knew the look well, and knew that she wasn’t going to try her odds against this woman with no magic at her command.

“Are you sure you don’t know Aveline?” she said under her breath, and moved to stand alongside the soldier.  “No offense, but I’m not going to turn my back on you, either.  You may think this is a dream, but I know it’s not, so I’m not taking any chances.”

“Just keep up, and don’t make me regret this,” the other woman responded, and began to move cautiously through the trees.  Their indistinct trunks seemed to slide out of their way as they walked, as though they were steering them in a particular direction. Indeed, that light kept up its flicker, growing brighter as they moved closer.  She felt as though they were moving at a normal pace, but the woods slid by them at such a slowed pace that she wondered if they were really walking at all.

It felt like an eternity, and more than once that creeping whisper pulled at her.  Others joined in, not as strong, but she knew their voices.  More that she had let die, that she hadn’t been strong enough to save, fast enough to rescue from danger, from outside or within.

_ “Marian.” _

_ “Hawke.” _

_ “Maaariiiii.”  _ The last one plaintive, frightened.  

“It’s worse each time,” the woman said, voice tight. “Block them out, think of the living, ignore the dead.”

The living.  They were so distant, the ones she had left behind. Carver, who was angry, so angry all of the time, but was still her little brother.  Lavellan with her old eyes and quiet persuasion.  Varric...her constant.  He may have shrugged off his heritage, but he was her rock, her lodestone, the one non-variable in her life for a decade. He was there. Always, always there, even when he wasn’t present.

_ Damn straight, Hawke. Don’t fall to pieces just because I’m out of range. I know you long for the chest hair and the rare pleasure of my presence, but you’re stronger than some Maker-forsaken voices in the dark.  Do I really have to tell you this? _

_ Maybe if you were  _ here _ you wouldn’t have to, you ass. _

_ Hey, you’re the one who decided she had to take on an unbeatable demon in the Fade, not me. I told you to get your ass out of there, didn’t I? _

_ When was the last time I listened to your advice? _

_ I don't know. When was the last time things went well for you?  _ Even her inner monologue was an asshole. _  So try something new for a change. Pay attention, do what you need to do here, and get back home.  You’re here for a reason; you know what I say about coincidences. _

_ They’re plot devices for lazy writers? _

_ Exactly.  So there’s a point to all of this. And you can tell me all about this little adventure when you get back. _

If _ I get back. _

_ When.  Stop being so nug-fucking fatalistic. I’m the only one who gets to kill you, which I may just do when I see you again. You absolute- _

Varric’s, or rather, her, she supposed, internal rant was cut off when they reached the source of the light.  The shuddering image of a small child, a boy, flickered in front of them.  The visage was unfamiliar to her, but the expression on the other woman’s face was suddenly, and forcefully, painful.  She looked as though someone had stabbed her in the stomach and she was slowly bleeding to death.  Hawke started to put out a hand instinctively to her, but hesitated.

And then, before the woman could do more than reach out towards the boy, the figure disappeared, engulfed in flames in front of both of them.

“Shit.” The epithet left the woman’s mouth, and for the first time since Hawke had encountered her, she looked unsure, almost defeated.  “Every time, I think I’ll get there. I never do.”

“Hey. You’re not taking your own advice.” She met Hawke’s eyes, confusion and grief clouding them. “Ignore the dead. Remember the living.” She gestured at the ground that appeared once again undisturbed. “You can’t do anything for that one. But you’ve got others counting on you, I’d guess.”  

She looked unconvinced, and turned on Hawke, eyes flashing with ire. “Are you some kind of spirit guide, is that why you’re here this time around? You’re going to fill me full of wisdom and blather and send me back to fight the good fight or some shit?”  She shook her head. “I don’t need that.  I’m going to fight. To try. For him, for all of them.”  The skin around her eyes tightened as she glanced at where the child had been moments before.

“I don’t know why I’m here. Maybe because I know a few things about fighting battles.  It sounds like you’re in the middle of a damned big one.” Hawke stepped between her and the spot of the vision where her eyes kept returning. “Maker’s breath. Look, I saw the same thing you did just now.  A kid getting burned alive like that? It’s sitting in you, gnawing away at your insides.   _ Use it. _ Take that anger and pain and frustration, and make it work for you.  Don’t let the bastards who did that win.”

“Oh. They won’t. I don’t care what I have to do, they will  _ not _ be victorious.”  The soldier was back, the woman slipping on a commanding mantle like a second skin.  It suited her, much more than the lost look and uncertainty did.

Hawke almost smiled, despite the grim conversation, but a sudden realization hit her and she instinctively reached out to grab the other woman’s arm.  “Ow! What the-” A grip like iron was on her wrist, squeezing enough to cause her some pain, but not enough to cause her permanent injury.  Hawke had been in enough scrapes to know it wouldn't have taken much for this woman to snap her bones like twigs.  “Right. No touching.”  She pulled back slightly, and the grip loosened, but wary eyes still tracked her. 

“Just...unexpected. Sorry.” She didn’t look sorry. She looked as though she would do the exact same thing again if Hawke made a similar move.  Whatever life this woman led was hard, as hard as Hawke’s own. Maybe worse if they bothered to compare stories, which for the sake of the tentative hold on her own sanity, she had no desire to do.

Hawke rubbed the skin on her arm as she continued. “Got it. But listen, whatever in the Void you do, make sure you tell them, whoever they are, how you feel.” A raised eyebrow was her only response, and she plowed on. “You have a boyfriend, girlfriend, best friend? Don’t leave it up to fate, don’t assume they know, none of that romantic ‘oh they understand’ bullshit.  _ Tell. Them. _ As often as you can.”  That ache in her chest was back, but this moment wasn’t about her, and she ignored it. “Tell them all. Friends, family if you have any, cohorts. Don’t leave regrets on the table. It makes things a lot harder when you take that leap.”

The other woman’s eyes widened slightly.  “What the hell happened to you?”

Her eyes closed briefly as she locked the pain away again, in as secure of a place as possible. “I left it all on the table.” Pulling herself together, she looked back at the soldier in strange garb.  “Just do me a favor. Ignore everything else I’ve said, convince yourself this was all some strange dream, I don’t care, but do that one thing.”

There was a hesitation, and then a nod. “Alright,” she said quietly, and to Hawke’s relief she actually seemed thoughtful about her words.

With that, a weight that she didn’t know she was carrying seemed to lift, and the incessant whispers retreated into silence.  She didn’t think she would miss the quiet until the world was filled with the sounds of loss.  But quiet or not, she’d had enough of the strange woods and their sinister looming presence.  She glanced around to try and find her way back the way they had come, but couldn’t see any trace of a broken path.  “Andraste’s burnt-”

“You looking for the way back?”  She pointed at a particular copse of trees, an amused look on her face.  “You came from over there.”

“How in the-nevermind.”  Hawke moved in the direction she pointed, and the other woman walked alongside.  “I have to remember, none of this needs to make sense. Much like a magic mirror dumping me into some strange woods.”

“Magic mirror?” The woman asked. “Sounds like something out of Alice in Wonderland.”

“I don’t know if this Alice’s Wonderland was anything like the place I’m going back to.”

“Full of demonic-looking creatures that want to devour you whole?”

“Yeeeees.”  Hawke stopped, looked at her askance.  “How did you-”

She laughed slightly, a sound that seemed to be unused to coming from the woman’s throat.  It was rough and hesitant. “I’m starting to wonder if Carroll was less drugged and more dimension-hopping.”  

“For her sake, I hope it wasn’t the latter.  This is much, much worse.”

“Carroll was a-no, not important. And you’re going back?”

“As lovely as this world is, and really, scary forest with voices of the dead is quite the motif, I have my own world to try and get back to.   And my own battles to fight.”  _ My own people to protect. If I can find them again. _

The eluvian still glowed faintly blue as she approached.  Hawke foolishly hadn’t considered what would have happened had it closed fully with her on the wrong side.  That was a mistake she wouldn’t make twice.  The surface rippled once again as she touched it, giving under the slight pressure of her hands.  “This is where I say goodbye and good luck with your fight.” 

“This was...interesting.”  She stopped the Champion with a light hand on her shoulder. “And hey. When you get back, take  _ your  _ own damn advice.”

“Who do you think I was really trying to convince here?” she replied with a humorless laugh, before stepping through.  It was only as the blue light engulfed her that she realized that she hadn’t even asked the other woman her name.   
  
  
  



	59. A Voiceless Howl through Silent Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further delving into the Arbor Wilds by an intrepid, varied, and intriguing group of Inquisition scouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fabulous guest chapter from my dear friend [Eisen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen). How do I put this? If you are not reading his work, you're doing yourself a serious disservice. Go, read, enjoy, and comment...after you finish this chapter of course.

She finally managed to dislodge the last leech that had managed to fasten itself to a most...problematic area while they had been wading through waist-high water a day ago. She knew that most of her armour was a write-off, after having been submerged in water, dragged through mud and bashed against all manner of rocks and tree-trunks.

Her hair had already been written, or rather taken, off, after the slapping of the wet strands against the back of her neck just became one irritation too many. Now her shortened golden ringlets were held out of her face with a faded band torn from what had once been a tunic, and was now little more than minor chafe protection between armour and skin.

At least she no longer felt like she was the only one suffering. Thornton and Hall had stripped their shirts around the time she had cut her hair. Thornton’s musculature glistened with sweat, reflecting off his dark skin. Hall, on the other hand, had smeared himself with mud, claiming that it helped keep him cool in addition to warding off insect bites and unfriendly eyes alike. She had to admit, she was getting dangerously close to trying it out as well; she was already smearing mud on any exposed skin, to try and prevent as many itching raw welts as possible, though more of her modesty would demand greater than even this hardship before it was surrendered.

The elves were the outliers. Both Cillian and Neria both still wore their entire ensemble of armour, which made her wonder whether the gear was enchanted to deal with these climates, or if elven biology was  _ so _ different. Hall had simply shrugged when she asked him,  _ ‘Maybe it’s the ears?’ _

Either way, she had lost count of how long they had been in this humid Void, forgotten what it had been like outside of it and yearned to be away once more.

Her brief respite was cut short when she saw Hall wave her over, his dried-and-cracking mask of mud frighteningly inhuman. Cillian was waiting for them when they arrived, his pale eyes scanning the undergrowth for any indicators that their position may have been revealed. He turned his attention to them when they drew close.

“Thornton and Neria have gone to isolate our foes,” he explained in that odd lilting accent of his, “We shall be the hammer to their anvil and as they cut off all escape we shall move in and eliminate the force proper.”

He crouched down to draw in the mud at their feet, the need for any of them to actually voice anything beyond the stating of a plan had disappeared during the time they had spent tracking the Red Templars. Talking required too much energy, too much thought. It was easier to simply act.

“They have moved into an old Elvhen ruin, older even than the Dales. Whatever they are after, we must either get it first, for the Inquisitor, or destroy it.”

Elisa and Hall nodded slowly - not quite numbly, but lacking any...feeling. Cillian’s marked face split into a grin. “Humans,” he commented to no-one in particular, “such peculiar creatures. It is no wonder you own this world. To fight the wilderness, you have become it, where  _ we _ simply shroud ourselves within it.”

Elisa and Hall were as mute as before, neither acknowledging, nor denying his aired philosophies. The elf turned without prompt, leading them into the thick growth he had been scanning moments before.

-

 

_ There was nothing but the breath.  _

_ There was nothing but the beat. _

_ There was nothing but the burn. _

_ There was nothing but the kill. _

She was a blade in the Inquisition arsenal. A weapon. A tool. She understood Argent then - the twisted philosophy of the small Orlesian assassin suddenly making sense in the place most removed from civilization. In a place where the mind was just another blade, with no place or patience for airy little thoughts like aspirations and creeds - no place for sorrow, anger...rage and revenge.

The muscles in her leg burned - wanting to stiffen with the milk that filled them long ago - as she pushed to the side, gracelessly crashing to the floor just in time to evade the red lyrium behemoth’s crystal-twisted arm. The oversized limb crashed into the paving where she had been a moment before and it roared, either in pain as its arm splintered under the force of its own attack, or simply with mindless fury.

Elisa did not give herself or the enemy any respite; her burning limbs pushed off again, ignoring the abrasions the landing had given her now mostly-bare legs, after the jungle had torn away at her hose until there were only tatters left.

Her breath burned. The back of her throat dry despite the humid air. The scent of blood was strong around her, whether theirs or their enemy’s was inconsequential; it was hardly as disconcerting as the unnerving feeling the red lyrium was giving her. It was the more likely to choke her of the two; blood she was used to, blood was her life.

The beat thundered through her head, her entire being, like a large gong calling a dragon, her heart beat, calling her, ever further, ever onwards, towards death. To her enemies’, to her own.

She almost shivered with pleasure as she felt her war-pick crack through the lyrium at the back of the behemoth’s leg, shattering a large chunk of the crystallised material. She thought of it as blood, just harder.

The behemoth screeched, a deafening noise that dazed Elisa; she came back to her senses just in time to see its man-sized arm flying at her again. This time she would be too slow, this time she would meet her fate.

She saw her parents standing before her in one another’s arms, her father no longer leaking the last of his life’s essence, her mother not splattered with the gore of her husband and children. Her twin no longer impaled on a spear wielded by a laughing Amaranthine man-at-arms. Laughter she knew she had succumbed to far too often herself.  _ Goodbye Fergus, may you live the long and peaceful life none of us have had…. _

-

 

A crystalline crack, a sickening wet squelch, a solid wall of air.

Everyone in the chamber was thrown away from where Cillian stood, his armour splattered with giblets and blood, a blade of pure energy extending from a hilt that Elisa had thought a mere curiosity - a keepsake.

There was a groan from the other side of the chamber, as Hall extracted himself from the shrubbery he had been thrown into.

“Scout Cousland,” the elf said in a low voice, anger whispering at the ends of his words. “You do not yet have permission to die. Please refrain from doing so.”

Elisa looked up at him uncertainly from where she had been thrown, skidding across what looked to be tiles of gold. The elf’s voice sounded strange, far away, muted behind a ringing in her head.  _ What…? I, I was going to go home…. _

Then the elf’s words asserted themselves in the correct sequence in her mind. “Permission…. Whose?”

“The Nightingale does not deem her agents expendable, Scout Cousland,” he replied smirking, the shrouded anger from a moment ago gone. “Please do try and remember that.”

Hall staggered into the center of the chamber, holding his head. It made for an odd sight with most of the mud he had plastered himself with getting peeled off by Cillian’s spell. “Well we’d better not try anymore of that bloody ham again, then.”

Elisa choked a grunt, which seemed to decide her lungs were an amiable accommodation and built into a full blown laugh until she had difficulty breathing. “Fuck…” she sighed, lying back on the golden tiles. “Bad time to make jokes, mud-man.”

“No, I’m quite sure it would get up and walk if left alone for more than five minutes.”

She snorted once more, and pushed herself up again, weakly. She was suddenly, painfully  aware of all the injuries she had picked up during the fight on top of the ringing headache.

Cillian seemed to notice and waved a glowing green hand at her, causing the worst of the pain to fade. She nodded her thanks from where she was leaning on her knees.

“Any...idea...what the tin-men are…looking for?” Elisa managed after a minute.

Cillian looked around, his eyes thoughtful. “I am not certain. I have explored many ruins, yet this one is...unique.”

He looked around at the statues and mosaics once more before shrugging, his pauldrons emphasising the gesture. “It looks to be a temple, or shrine to Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. If the Templars have a good lead I would be most curious to find out what they are after.”

Elisa staggered over to where she had lost her shield, noting that her pick was done for, somehow at some point having melted into what more resembled a fireplace poker than a serviceable weapon. She sighed at the loss, and drew her sword in preparation for heading deeper into the ruin.

“My bet?” she said as she started making towards the next chamber, “beyond all this gaudy gold decor and maybe some scribbles men with beards get a hard one over, a whole fat load o’ nuthin’.”

Cillian chuckled. “At times like these I am grateful my heritage does not allow for facial hair. Though I’m not sure what your statement says about dwarven stereotype.”

“Stop overthinking it and make sure I keep that promise then, Halla-head. For the Inquisition, etcetera, etcetera.” Elisa called over her shoulder as she lifted the bolt that was blocking the way forward aside.


	60. Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish, Now are visions ne’er to vanish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is much that goes on out of the public eye, and the struggles aren't always on the battlefield.

The nightmares came again that night.  It seemed that they came more frequently since she came back from Adamant, pressed more closely to his consciousness as the inevitable conflict in the Arbor Wilds drew nearer.  In his waking hours, he found it somewhat ironic that she escaped from the Nightmare as he descended further into his own Fade-based hell.  Solas assured him, when he asked in a roundabout way, that there was no mystical element to his increasingly disturbed sleep patterns.

Finding out about Samson had added a new and increasingly frightening element to the already horrifying scenarios that his mind created when he was helpless in slumber.  The red.  It was bad enough trying to outrun his addiction to regular lyrium; though the craving faded day by day, it was never gone, and there were spikes where his hands shook and he broke into a cold sweat as he had to physically hold himself back from chasing down the dwarves who brought in the glowing blue liquid.  He curled his fingers into his fist, crescent impressions of his nails left red and stinging in his palms.  The added pain somehow reminded him that he  _ could _ resist the lure.

But the red...it didn’t take a taste, the bitter burning that slid down his throat and sang through his veins, making him stronger.  All it cost him was his humanity, his compassion, and apparently, he thought, considering his time at Kirkwall, his good judgement.  This new lyrium...it  _ hummed _ , called to anyone it encountered, sang a song that enticed as much as the blue ever could when he was drunk on its power.  He couldn’t hear the words, but he  _ wanted to _ , and that filled him with shame as great as any he could imagine.

And now...it haunted him in the night, glowed behind his closed eyes, the thought of it pulsing in time with his heartbeat.  “Maker’s breath,” he said, staring down at his bed, dreading climbing between the sheets and closing his eyes.  Because it waited for him like some demon lover, more enticing and destructive than the one he fought in Kinloch. It wanted to embrace him, run itself along his skin, get inside of him and stoke him into a frenzy that was beyond lust, that became need, an insatiable craving that had him arching off the mattress in the hope of one more touch, one more hint of the power and release it offered.

It was always just out of reach.  And with his eyes open, he was grateful beyond words.  But in the darkness, when inhibitions and common sense were flung aside because the conscious was no longer in control...he was in its thrall.  And it was glorious.   And it was terrible.  And he was afraid.

Fear...that metallic taste in the back of his mouth; something he had forgotten while in the City of Chains, so deeply under the lyrium’s spell was he.  With power of that magnitude, fear was the purview of people who didn’t know the thrill of stopping a mage with little more than a push of will.  But that was all in the past, and he was just a man with a sword and a history and a lifetime’s worth of scars both physical and mental that tugged at him, reminded him of his mortality and how far he had come.  How far he still had to go.  How far he would never go-no.  He would not follow that path of self destruction, not again.  Fighting the lure of red lyrium was bad enough.  He didn’t need to fight his own psyche as well, his own feelings of inadequacy, that he was unequal to the tasks in front of him, and unworthy, beyond unworthy of her affection, her love.

The call of it wrapped like fingers around his wrist, even before he closed his eyes.  He knew it had been unwise to bring it to Skyhold; even at this distance, as it dwelt with Dagna in the Undercroft,  it had a hold on him, wanted to whisper its dark and dangerous secrets in his ear.  He shivered as it seemed to brush against his earlobe, words just below his hearing, but the unmistakable craving in its sound made him bite back a groan.

“Maker, my enemies are abundant.

Many are those who rise up against me.

But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,

Should they set themselves against me.”

The words of the Chant, as familiar to him as his own name, brought its cooling strength to his mind.  He felt the tug still of the red, the caress along the sensitive skin where ear and neck met, the seductive pull of its desire for him to join with it, make them one, give into the temptation, drive away fear and uncertainty with one...small...taste….

“In the long hours of the night

When hope has abandoned me,

I still see the stars and know 

Your Light remains.”

The shivers were no longer the lustful urge to join with the crystal, but disgust at its unwanted caresses. Its touch slowly became less seduction than annoyance as the verses spilled from his lips, that particular quatrain reminding him of  _ her _ , the woman who had come to mean more to him than any before, and none would be able to take her place, no red idol could come between them. Its ruby pulsing was no competition for the steady sapphire of her eyes, its hot strokes a pale imitation of her cool and soothing touch.

He could feel it tugging now, not gentle in its insistence that it become one with him.  Seduction turned to assault, lustful undertones transformed to a seething anger that someone, some foolish human would dare defy it, with its guaranteed power and endless hunger, its need to devour those who came in contact with it.  But he stood firm, let it batter against his mind as he built a barrier of faith and determination against its onslaught of amoral desires.

“I have heard the sound,

A song in the stillness,

The echo of Your voice,

Calling creation to wake from its slumber.”

And through it all, she was there, a breath of winter that broke the fever the red infected him with.  It was as though she was a presence as he stood in the room, a balm to his nerves, a reminder that there was no comparison that could be made between some whispering crystal and the solid, real, true presence of the woman who held his heart.  And in that moment he knew what she meant when she said the stars sang for her in his presence, because he could hear them, too, and they rang with her voice, driving away the last of the insidious red lyrium’s presence for the night.

“I am not alone. Even

As I stumble on the path

With my eyes closed, yet I see

The Light is here.”

Finally, there was only blessed silence, and the fading reminder of her echoing in the room.  With trembling, shaking, relieved hands, he pulled back the covers, lay down, and closed his eyes, the night quiet, the red no longer there behind his lids.  Instead, he saw the crystalline perfection of snow in the blackness, and smiled as it floated down to coat his mind in its cool clean whiteness.

 

\------

 

She sat in the shadows of his room, and watched him as he struggled with whatever torment plagued him in his sleep.  It tore at her heart that he had to battle the ghosts alone, but she would not leave him when he was like this, and he never knew that she was there, watching, doing what she could to guard him, as he stood vigil over her when she was trapped in the Fade.

He muttered and moaned, tossing the sheets aside, standing fully upright, staring sightless at the bed.  In that moment she could not longer stand aside, let him fight whatever it was that he faced by himself.  She would at least let him know that she was there.

She heard the words of the Chant as she approached him, and quietly recited them alongside him.  A tentative hand on his arm seemed to calm his heaving breaths, and she brushed her fingers on his brow, willing the hot fear that seemed to consume him to leave him, torment him no longer.

His words grew stronger, and she wondered what part of his mind knew the appropriateness of using Trials to increase his resolve.  And still she spoke them in time with him, her own voice raising with his, her hands, so helpless in this situation, brushing at his skin, driving some coolness into the heat of his flesh, trying desperately to restore equilibrium to him, to bring him back into himself.

And then...suddenly...it was like a bow snapped, and the fever broke, and the struggle ceased as he finished his verse.  She felt something fall away from him, something dark and sinister and desirous, but she chose to stay with him rather than try and track the source of the malevolence that dared to strike at the man she loved beyond reason. It would wait, and she would discover it, and it would not last long enough to try again, that she guaranteed silently.  If Cullen had been conscious at that point, he would have seen the fiercely protective smile on her face, and been struck silent by its intensity, by her unwavering determination to guard the ones who had her heart.  As it was, he relaxed, and moved to return to the bed, still blind to the waking world, but calmer, his heartbeat once again steady and sure.

She pulled the covers over him, returned the smile he gave in his newly undisturbed sleep, and pulled a chair to sit by his bedside as he had done for her, keeping watch over him while he rested. Rowan would be gone before dawn, before he knew she was there, before he discovered that she kept a vigil and attempted to put a stop to it.  He didn’t need to know that she kept him safe; he only needed to  _ be _ safe.  Her heart demanded it.  And so she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, listened to the small sounds of his breathing, and once again thanked the Maker and Creators that he had come into her life, and the she had fallen into his.   Fate had conspired to give the two at least a moment’s peace and happiness in the midst of war and destruction, and she would not take it for granted for even a moment.

“Ar lath, ‘ma’sal’shiral. Son era.”

  
  
  
  
  



	61. But to me heard afar it was starry music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not just in the War Room that plans are laid out, and the Inquisition's circle is expanding and concentric, bringing light in the darkness.

_ I didn’t think I'd find time to come back here before the world ended.  _

So much had changed since her last visit to the stars. She had been trapped in the Fade. Taken on Halamshiral. Battled Wardens. Lost Hawke. Found Cullen.

She had lived a lifetime in a matter of months. It was heady and frightening. She took the moment to get away, slip into the darkness and try and find again the answers that had been eluding her. Instead she found herself worrying about her family, and the night sky faded away as her thoughts overtook her.

The dreadful anticipation had everyone on edge.  Each member of Skyhold carried his or her nightmare of what was waiting for them in the Arbor Wilds. It was making Sera testy, finding more ways to be mildly destructive than usual.  Rowan knew she had tampered with the manifest of Skyhold’s library. No one needed forty copies of  _ Hard in Hightown _ . She suspected it was an attempt to cheer Varric up after Adamant, though her efforts were largely in vain. The Author had been caught more than once with quill poised over parchment, not moving for minutes as the ink dripped slowly out of the nib onto surface below him. He'd shake himself out of those moods, only to have it start again when there was a lull in conversation or a sound caught his attention. Between Hawke and the discovery of Bianca’s betrayal, he was a sadder, quieter version of the Varric she loved. 

Solas had become quieter than usual, withdrawing into his rotunda in solitude or, as was becoming frequently the case, disappearing without a word and reappearing a day or so later, looking tired and withdrawn. She kept asking if she could help, but she had started to despair of ever getting an affirmative response.

Bull and Cassandra were spending every free moment sparring.  Dorian had buried himself in tomes and wine, and Vivienne was alongside him, both of them searching the endless volumes in Skyhold to find some answer, some hope for them.

Blackwall had spent his time drifting between the stables and the sparring ring, his brow furrowed in worry and concentration.  He stared off into the distance more often than not, as though watching a play only he could see.  From time to time she saw Cole speaking with him, and that was when he became more animated, shaking his head vehemently at  whatever the boy was saying.  The boy would disappear and the Warden would go back to whatever he had been working on...until something drew his attention away again.

She knew that the journey to the Arbor Wilds was inevitable.  The first reports had just started making their way back to Leliana from the scouts she had sent ahead.  The news...was bad.  Beyond bad; there was a major confrontation beyond even the scope of Adamant brewing in those trees, monsters hiding in the brush and waiting to make them fall. And among them, he waited.

Corypheus.  Dorian’s extensive research had yielded some vague implications about the man he once was, but it didn’t make a difference. Whoever that Magister had been, what was left was riddled with red lyrium and a desire to destroy the world and reshape it in his image, one as malformed as his face and filled with as much promised menace.

Those remembered moments of facing off against him in Haven swam up in front of her as she slept, the disdain made evident by his tone, his anger as he tossed her body aside, a useless rag.  But at least those she knew were moments from before.  She didn’t sense him there as she tried to sleep.  He had been taken out of the Fade entirely, it seemed.

She knew that the demons were biding their time.  She could feel them like hungry dogs waiting at the edges of her mind for an opening, just a crack in the door that they could exploit, ready to devour her for their master.  But she was ready for them.  She set protections around her.  

And there was shadow that kept watch over her.  Indistinct, eyes flashing from time to time in the darkness, it guarded her, let out a low growl when she could feel the press of the malevolent spirits against her mind until the pressure eased.  And then it melded back into the void beyond the reaches of her inner sight.

Then there were the familiar faces.  Her father.  Stroud.  Hawke.   _ Hawke _ , looking more angry than resigned at being beyond her reach.  They passed by her mind’s eye, never stopping, though Marian’s visage seemed to hesitate for an instant before continuing on.

She worked on the exercises Cillian had taught her before he had gone to the Wilds.   _ Breathe deep, stay the course.  You are in control, not the Fade.  It is a place, and you walk within it, part of it, but not belonging to it.  It belongs to you.  Breathe deep. _

“Will we be ready? Will  _ I _ ?” She didn’t know, and the stars didn’t have any answers.  No one seemed to. But the others believed she did, and that she would lead them to victory.  

What  _ was _ victory?  Defeating Corypheus? Could he be killed? Or was it just locking him away again and making him someone else’s problem in another lifetime? She knew that there was no way she could pass the responsibility onto the future.   She would stop him, permanently, or die trying.

“Inquisitor?”  The voice came softly to her from the battlements. Sweeping her cloak aside, the Left Hand of the Divine made her way across the roof to her side.  “May I join you for a moment?”

“Of course, please do.” She gave a small smile.  “I can’t say it’s particularly comfortable; it’s an acquired taste.”

She lowered herself down next to Rowan, each movement quick and sure and graceful.  “I’ve spent many a day on the cold ground, your Worship.  There were nights when this would have been a welcome respite.” She chuckled lightly.  “I think I expected Morrigan to complain the loudest, but in the end we all took our turn cursing our inadequate bedrolls.  Even Triona had a moment or two where she let out a string of profanity to rival any soldier’s.”

“I admit, I forget from time to time that you traveled with the Hero of Ferelden.  This isn’t your first time facing down the end of the world.”

“I hate to say that it isn’t, and as strange as it seems, this is worse than the Blight ever was.  Likely because it was stopped before it ever truly started.  Warden Surana and Alistair...King Theirin, I still have a hard time reconciling that to myself, honestly, brought down the Archdemon.  They didn’t believe they could.  None of us thought that we were going to succeed, and we honestly felt from time to time that we were just stumbling through the world, waiting for the inevitable.”

“And yet you won.”

“We did.  I was lucky enough to be witness to that victory, to have played some small role in its fruition.”  Rowan suspected that her role was much more significant than Leliana would ever say.  She was dedicated to her causes, zealously so.  Flashes of those moments in that alternate future as she fought to her death to allow her to win were testament to her commitment to saving the world.  Youth likely would have made it even more prevalent, she was sure.  

Her next words came hesitantly.  “How did...how did you keep going? How did you know what to do when the time came?”

That brought an actual laugh from the other woman.  “Oh, if only you had been there.   We didn’t know.  We barely even guessed. We stumbled blindly in the dark and hoped,  _ prayed _ that we had the right answer.  There were no assurances except that we were ready to die, both for each other, and for Thedas, the entire world.”  Her voice became low and serious.  “We had no choice.  We had to try, anything, everything.  We brought any and every advantage we thought we had to that final battle.  Even at that it almost wasn’t enough.  I still….” She stopped.  “To this day I’m not sure exactly how we all survived.  I know that none of us were the same afterwards.  To face a creature with power nearing that of a god...and then to see it die, to be the instrument of its destruction….  It will change you.”  

“You talk as though you’re sure that I’ll be able to defeat him.”

A hand touched her shoulder, and she turned her head to look at the other woman. “As sure as I am of anything.  And these days...I am sure of very little.” The look in her eyes was intense, just shy of feverish. “I have seen you face hardship and adversity. You have walked through the Fade not once, but twice, and have escaped being held there as well.  You have lost but have kept going, kept fighting for us all.  If you do not, it will be because there was no chance of winning.”

She bowed her head, unable to keep the gaze of the woman who had so much faith in her abilities.  “I will not give up, I promise you, Leliana.”

“There’s no need to promise.  I know. We all know. You have our trust, and you have our hearts, Rowan Lavellan.  We will follow you to the ends of the earth and back.  You inspire in a way I haven’t seen in over a decade.  The world awaits your next step, and Corypheus should fear how you choose to meet him once more.”

“I...don’t know what to say,” she said to her Spymaster.  “I will be ready when the time comes.”

Leliana stood, a small smile gracing her features.  “That’s good.  I came here to tell you, we’ve had word from the Wilds.  We know where the Templars are concentrated, and we can begin our troop movements at your word.” She reached into her pocket. “There was a note included with the reports for you.” At Rowan’s pointed look, she continued, unabashed. “It is from your mentor, Cillian.  I will leave you with his words.  Shall I alert the others to begin our preparations?”

“Yes.  Our plans have been in place for weeks. There’s no reason to hesitate.” The paper was smooth in her hands, and by the magelight she conjured she could see the spidery handwriting with her name on the front of the sheet. She looked back up at her advisor.  “I am...lucky is not the right word. The Maker and Creators saw fit to bring you here, Leliana.  Any victory we have will be due in no small part to you.  Thank you.”

She inclined her head slightly.  “You are welcome, Rowan,” the woman replied, before she disappeared in the shadows of the night.

It was a moment before Rowan could look away from where she had been standing to look at her note.

 

_ Da’len, _

_ The Arbor Wilds echo with the voices of our past.  When you step into this world you will know that the Veil is thin here and that those you stand against steadfastly will be waiting to penetrate your defenses. _

_ Be as we have spoken of.  Be its master, not its slave. _

_ Remember that you are the snow that covers the mountains, the quiet power that can lay the mighty low, muffle the steps of your allies and dog the steps of your enemies.   _

_ Victory will be in the the remembrance of who you are, Rowan Lavellan. _

_ We will be waiting to face the foe with you. _

_ Breathe deep. _

_ -Cillian _


	62. And shadows into light shall fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of the eluvians deepens as the Champion continues her journey.

“One of these fucking mirrors is going to get me home!”  She spun her staff, a bolt of lightning shooting from the tip.  The fearling’s spidery little head exploded with a satisfying zzzt of electricity that baked its demonic brains from the inside out.  She didn’t even mind the ichor on her clothes anymore.  Nothing really smelled in the Fade, so what did it matter if she was a little damp with arachnid goo?  “Do you  _ hear  _ me? I am going back where I belong, which is not this green-tinged shithole!”  The other creatures scurried away; they had taken to coming in small groups, but for evil creatures, they were awfully skittish about being blown up.

All of the damn eluvians refused to open no matter how much power she threw at them. After that first trip into the odd forest where she encountered the woman, there had been no new blue glowing doorways.  She worked for hours at each one until she panted for breath and her vision turned red at the edges.  She hadn’t been stuck in the Fade for long, but she didn’t want to spend any more time in it than was absolutely necessary.  

There was also nothing to eat, and while she didn’t seem to feel hunger, she missed the idea of eating.  And drinking.  Hawke really, really missed drinking.  The thought of a cold ale reinvigorated her desire to unlock one of those blasted mirrors.

It was time for the one by the first area she and the hopefully intact group of Inquisition members had fallen into.  She had steadily worked backwards from the ones closest to where they had battled with the Nightmare, and each one proved more frustrating than the last when they wouldn’t. Fucking.  _ Open. _ She thought that she was doing something wrong, but when she returned to the one she had originally unlocked, it responded to the same level of power that she was throwing at the other pieces of Maker-cursed glass.  So, she just assumed they were broken, that the lock had somehow been jammed on the other side and she couldn’t get through.

_ Or you’re really enjoying your time here. _

_ Fuck you, Dwarf. When I see you again I’m going to- _

_ What? When you see me again you’re going to face the fact that you almost said something acknowledging your feelings.  You know, those things that people have that separate them from rocks. Or Junior. _

_ Careful there, you’re actually starting to sound like me. _

_ I am you. _

_Irrelevant_ _! I didn’t commit to anything!  It could have meant any of a hundred different things!   _

_ Oh, yes. “I know, and I do, too.” You were talking about your dirty clothes.  We both have laundry to do that was left undone back at Skyhold. _ The voice’s sarcastic edge was biting and relentless.   _ Give it up, Marian.  You see me again, you’re going to have to admit it. I’m going to make you. _

_ Maybe the Fade’s not so bad. I could learn to like it here. This rock looks almost comfortable.  _ She sat.  It wasn’t.

_ Get off your ass, Hawke, and get moving.  The Champion of Kirkwall doesn’t end as a grease spot under some Nightmare demon’s foot.  That’s a ridiculously anticlimactic finale to your story.   _

_ Couldn’t you pretend it was some kind of blaze of glory? ‘Hawke heroically faced down the Nightmare demon while their companions made their escape so they could continue their fight against the Elder One and his minions?’ _

_ A mangled corpse is still a mangled corpse, no matter how nicely you dress it up.  No. You’re coming back alive, and it might just make a fucking amazing sequel to the first Tale. _

_ Fine. I’m going to get out of here, if it’ll shut you up. You’ll get to have your fucking great story, and I’m going to go back to not having a voice in my head. _

_ You keep telling yourself that.  Just get the damn door open and you can fight with the real me about it until you’re old and grey.  Or until you die fighting another demon. I’ll tell people that this time, it was as big as Skyhold though. _

She stood and approached the eluvian.  It looked like all of the others; well, as much as the others looked like one another. This one, too, had its own unique markings that if she knew the slightest bit about ancient Elvhen culture may have told her about where she was headed if it unlocked.  She took the same deep breaths each time, steadying herself for the flow of power that came to her call.  It was heady and dangerous and she didn’t feel much like spontaneously combusting from not being centered enough to control it.

When the almost audible ‘click’ happened, she felt the magic jump from her and into the mirror, eyes widening as the eluvian once again provided that eerie blue glow that meant she was going to step into the unknown.   _ What the fuck was I thinking? _ Regardless, she pulled back on the fiery force she was channeling, the white-hot flames dying away into ethereal embers before disappearing in little wisps of smoke that rose from her fingertips.

The blue light felt like...nothing as she stepped through.  The first time she had expected some sort of resistance, something that told her she was moving through an expanse of space.  But it was really no more exciting than crossing a threshold.  Prepared for it the second time, she kept her spells at the ready, and when she had successfully crossed through, she checked for her magic, which unlike before was readily at hand.  And just as strong as it had been on the other side. Which meant she was still in the Fade.

She drew two small fireballs to her hands, and one of the orbs of flame reflected off of something ahead of her.  It was dark wherever she was, like a night without the moon.  There was some vague light coming from...somewhere, but there was no direct source, and only indistinct blurs let her know there was a change in the seemingly empty void.

She pushed the two balls together in her hands, increasing the size with bits of magic until there was enough power to illuminate her immediate surroundings, and her eyes widened as she saw what was laid out in front of her.  

Five more eluvians, placed in a semi-circle, met her gaze.  Though at first they seemed much the same type of mirrors as the others she had encountered, as she followed the lines and curves of each frame, she saw that they were intricately woven together. Each was connected to the last by delicately intertwining vines of metal in infinite loops and swirls. And where the previous mirrors had all been distinctly gold-hued, these were silvery, though with a patina that spoke of age beyond measure. They all seemed intact, and the surface of each seemed to move as she glanced at it.  Stepping closer, fireball suspended in the air above her, she was able to make out the faces that passed by the mirrors.

They were her.

Or...they  _ felt _ like her.  The first one was young, maybe twenty or twenty five, with raven black hair cut short, almost carelessly, with an strongly angular face and striking blue eyes that held sorrow and anger and more than a bit of mischief.  A red mark across her face made her seem fierce, it made her wonder whether it was warpaint, or blood, or something else entirely. The set of her mouth was confident and challenging. Her weapon looked like a simple spear, unadorned beyond the steel brackets protecting the shaft, but there was an unmistakable aura of magic about her, something wild and not unlike Hawke’s own. She was her. but she was different. It made Hawke want to call out to her, find a bar and sit down, with a drink and chat about how fucking fucked up everything was.

The background was unmistakeable.  Kirkwall, the City of Chains,  _ her _ city, as much as Varric’s, and it was teeming with Qunari.  She watched the girl slice through lines of the grey-skinned giants, a red headed stranger by her side in odd armor, the two consummate fighters, flawless instruments of destruction as blood and bodies flowed down the stairs in torrents of red.  A bolt with unmistakeable fletching found its home in the throat of another who was too close to that other her for comfort. There was a soundless shout from the woman’s lips, and Hawke could only imagine that it was something slightly obscene.  It was what she would have done. This was not her memory, that was not  _ her _ , and yet….  She broke away from the scene, the odd sense of deja vu making her queasy.  

The second scene did nothing to calm the oddity.  This her was a  _ him _ , scruffy and bearded and most definitely a mage.  He practically glowed with power, and she could feel the pull of that dark allure that she had always fought the call of. He was grinning with an edge, as though he was just on the right side of being feral - or mad. He too, bore the distinctive red stripe across the bridge, but the meaning of his was clear:an announcement of his choice of magic to the world, it was a dare and a challenge.  If she hadn’t been so stridently against using it herself, she would have been impressed by his boldness, not unlike her own.  

The male Hawke was speaking to a woman with skin the silvery grey of the ocean before a storm, horns delicately curving away from her head, with midnight hair that tumbled down her back in a sheet so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it.  She looked young, but not untested; there was a hardness to her that went beyond her Qunari blood, an almost unconscious clenching of her jaw, darkness in her lavender eyes that said she had seen much in her years, much of it harsh.  She recognized the look as one she saw when she looked in the mirror. 

And then suddenly into the frame came not only Merrill, but that damnable dwarf half-dragging a slightly starstruck-looking brunette into the room behind him.  She curtseyed,  _ curtseyed _ at the male version of herself.  It had to be another of Varric’s enthusiastic fans, though there was something about her that was decidedly...different.  Maybe it was just the deference she was showing the other her...him….Hawke, but there was something.  Then Varric put his hand on the other man’s arm, and the gesture was so  _ familiar _ that she could almost feel the pressure of his fingers on her skin.  He had done that innumerable times to her, stopped her with a simple touch that kept her from taking that step over the edge.  And was doing that for someone else.  Helping another the way he helped her.  The sudden flaring jealousy towards this other version of herself had her stepping up to the mirror, wanting to challenge this raven-haired imposter for  _ her  _ author. The scene suddenly swirled away, as though the mirror wanted to rob her of the chance to get him back, even though some part of her knew that the Varric she had seen was as different as the other Hawkes were.  Cold logic didn’t quell the anger or frustration of watching him disappear yet again as she stood alone in the Fade.

She wanted to scream and rail at the glass, at the unfairness of what was happening but knew it was an exercise in futility.  Instead, the third mirror decided to chime in with its opinion of the life of Hawke, to flash through the moments where she had lost those she cared about the most.  Her father, gone at far too young of an age, when she wept over his grave...Bethany, her beautiful young sister full of potential, ripped apart by a monster that should never have even  _ been _ ...Mother at the hands of a monster of the human variety that even now made her blood run cold...Carver as he left her behind to join the Templars, unable to reconcile her abilities with the woman who was his sister.  And then Anders, that moment when-

She launched the fireball at the eluvian, but it just kept playing out its silent scenes, making her relive her greatest pain, her failures, in full, awful color. She was an audience member to her own torment, watching tableau after tableau acted out in front of her, seeing herself over and over having each one of her loved ones stripped from her.  It opened wounds that she had long thought healed, ones that had been scabbed over and turned to scars by time and distance. They were raw and real and horrible again, searing misery that threatened to choke her with its intensity.  She felt the tears, but refused to acknowledge them as they poured down her face.  It would weaken her, make her less than the Champion she was supposed to be, the woman who charged into danger, took no prisoners, and laughed in the face of death. No. It was an effect of the Fade, an allergy to elvhen magic, anything but the fact that her heart was being shredded by the images dancing across an imperfect piece of glass.

The fourth illuminated from within as the representation of her heartache dimmed, and a single image shone forth.  The Nightmare stood over a broken body.  It was Stroud, of course, she had watched him die, his life leaving him in an instant.  But...no.  There was no distinct Grey, no mustache obscuring the lower half of his face.  There was long brown hair, mage’s robes, a staff that still sparked with lightning….  She looked down at her hands, at the frayed cuffs of her clothing, identical to the ones in front of her.  No.  She was  _ here. _ She was in the damned Fade, yes, but she was alive...wasn’t she?  That other woman had seen her...though she could have been....  

“No!  No, I am alive!  I’m right  _ here _ !”  She dug her fingernails into her palms until she felt the stinging pain of her skin splitting.  The slightest sliver of blood welled up from one of the crescent cuts. “See? Would I bleed if I was dead?”  In response, the eluvian went dark.  With dread in her heart, she turned to the last one of its kind, which slowly brightened onto the image of an ocean, and from the angle of the sun, it was an eastern body of water. Looking down, she could just make out a wooden floor, fairly new in appearance, though sand had already filled in the gaps, giving it a mottled look.  This time she could hear, too; the distant sound of the waves, the cry of a sea bird of some sort.  

She had no idea what she was looking at.  None.  Never had she seen a view beautiful enough to take her breath away as this one did, and she was damn sure never in a building new enough to have floors not destroyed by boots, weaponry, spilled alcohol, and bodily fluids.  Tentatively, she put out a hand, and the image stayed.  She put her hand to the glass, and it slid through with no resistance.  With something akin to giddiness, she stepped over the threshold, and found herself with her feet on solid ground, the wind off the sea in her hair, and the smell of…unfortunately, the smell of dead and decaying monsters coming off of her in waves.  But she wasn’t in the Fade anymore, or at least no part of the Fade she had ever encountered, so she would take the noxious odors of her own body over the numbness of wrong side of the Veil any day.

Suddenly, she realized she had just been standing in the middle of...what appeared to be a tavern.  To her left was the ocean view that she had seen through the mirror.  To the right...was her salvation.  A bar, easily twenty feet long, gleamed with fresh polish and the obviously tender care of its owner.  It was golden and pristine and one of the most beautiful sights she had ever taken in.  Behind the glowing expanse, a man who had the obvious air of military about him, stood waiting quietly for her to approach him.  Years of guard duty would instill patience in the most impulsive of men, and this one was no exception.  She moved tentatively away from the eluvian, which was hanging mutely against the wall, the blue glow of its magic gone, a wavering and imperfect mirror once again.  Vaguely she wondered what one was doing in a coastal tavern, but the thought fled when she saw the tankard the man had in his hand.

“Sirrah, I will gladly give you every bit of gold in my pocket for a drink.”

The man lifted one side of his mouth just slightly.  “You needn’t do that.  This is a tavern, Messere Hawke, and you’re welcome here.”  He pulled on the tap that let the golden liquid flow into the glass like honey from the hive, and slid the drink across the bar when it was full. She had swallowed half of the tankard before something struck her and she lowered the glass, the perfection of the ale clouded by sudden suspicion.

“How do you know who I am?”

The other side of his mouth lifted, and there was a genuine smile. “I hail from Kirkwall myself, and I would know the Champion anywhere, especially when she makes an entrance into my tavern like you did. I patrolled those streets for twenty years, and I remember your mother’s family.  Good people, the Amells, if a bit blinded by their own sense of morality.  And your uncle, sorry to say, was a bit of an ass.”

“You knew Gamlen, alright,” she said, relaxing slightly.  “Now, maybe you can tell me where in the Void I am?”  She finished the drink and placed it on the bar with a baleful look; without a word, the bartender refilled and slid it back to her.

“Ah, you are in The Watch, Messere, the finest tavern to grace the Amaranthine coast in known memory. It also happens to be the quietest.”  He gestured to the empty room.  “I didn’t know I was looking for solitude when I retired from the Guard, but I can’t complain.”  He moved stiffly as he came around the bar, as though there were injuries that still plagued him.  She recognized the movement and sympathized.  A lifetime in Kirkwall on the right side of the law found you filled with holes more often than not.  “Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’ll be looking for a bath, a fresh set of clothes, and some food?  You look like you’ve had a bit of an adventure, if I couldn’t already tell that by you stepping through my mirror and into my bar.”

“You were sent by the Maker, my good man. Yes, all of the above.  I have plenty of coin to pay my way, if not here then I can send for funds from….” The words escaped her.  They were on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite pull them to her, to speak them.  “I can get them,” she finished, sounding unconvincing, but the man just waved her off.  

“The Champion doesn’t pay her way in my bar.  You saved a lot of good men with your work in the City of Chains, and we’re indebted to you.  I probably wouldn’t even be here without you and your group.”

“You’re too kind, Sirrah.  Now, before I continue to befoul your beautiful place, you mentioned a bath? Though I suspect a cleansing ritual might be necessary at this point.”

“Of course. It won’t be a moment. A bath, some food, and then the rest you deserve.”

_ Rest. _ That idea sounded heavenly.  Yes, rest.  Where she could sleep, relax, not worry anymore, let the burdens of life fall away, let everything slip away, close her eyes and welcome oblivion. “But another ale first?”

“As much as you desire, Messere. Consider The Watch your home.”

_ Home. _  What she had been searching for was finally realized.  “I think I will, Sirrah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wonderful friends, [Eisen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen) and [MaryDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon/pseuds/MaryDragon), allowed me to kidnap their Hawkes for my nefarious purposes, and I will be forever grateful to them for this. And for their friendship that helps to keep me grounded and while maybe not sane, blessedly happy. 
> 
> Thank you both, from the bottom of my heart.


	63. Cut through the heat— plough through it, turning it on either side of your path.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We enter the Wilds, progress is made, and voices rise up from the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of my readers, new and old, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to come on this journey with me. I'm enjoying the ride, slow as it is. I hope you are, too!

It was hot.  And not the scorching dry heat of the Wastes; the air was saturated with humid suffocating moisture that seemed to steam every living creature around it.  It was sweat, inside and out, bodies dropping from the inability to breathe in deeply enough to keep up with the strain of armor and packs and all of the necessary provisions for moving an army.

The scouts had warned them, told them with no equivocation about the misery that was waiting for them in the southern lands.  They thought they had been prepared.

No amount of precaution would have been enough.  The bugs alone were torturous, oversized and biting.  The welts appeared on skin faster than the healing potions could keep up with, and bleeding scabs quickly became hot, red and inflamed.  Infection was almost instantaneous, and soldiers were regularly doubling over with fevers and shakes.  The ones that didn’t bite were constantly flying in the faces of the mounts, causing them to shudder, stop, rear back, and the unprepared and lesser skilled riders would regularly get thrown. They were fortunate that nothing worse than occasional broken bones were the result.

Bull made a comment about it reminding him of Seheron, and he certainly didn’t seem as though he was fondly reminiscing when he spoke.  “Stinking sweaty shithole,” were three of the nicer words that he used, and Cole perked up at the alliterative string slightly, before losing himself once more as the suffering around him was overwhelming to his increasingly human body and mind.

He had spoken to her a time or two since they had tracked down the man who had killed his namesake.  He saw her as “slightly less bright, beaming, bathed in light like the full moon,” but still had difficulty having full conversations with her.  Even he didn’t remain unaffected by the misery around them, beyond what she was sure were the mental clamouring of hundreds of soldiers and civilians alike, most unused to the oppressive humidity that threatened both health and sanity.  

She did what she could with the magic she contained, still able to draw on the moisture in the air to drop the temperatures to more acceptable levels, but it was a luxury that she couldn’t maintain if she wanted to ensure she was fully prepared to meet...whatever lay hidden in the trees.  

An eluvian, Morrigan had said, in a temple dedicated to Mythal.  Absently she wondered why it was she and not Falon’Din or Dirthamen who had a portal that passed between realms.  It seemed somewhat out of place, but when they approached, maybe she’d understand.  Or maybe Solas would be able to tell her more.  

He had been remarkably tight-lipped the entire journey, and she knew something was weighing on him.  There had been more than one moment where she wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him back into awareness, a move that would have been worthy of Hawke.  She refrained, but only barely, because she could see the tension in his jaw and the faraway look in his eyes.  When he got like that, he stopped hearing and seeing entirely.

_ Ma’falon, what answers are you looking for outside of the world around you? _

He seemed to stiffen, almost as though he heard her, but it was just a moment, a brief twitch of the shoulders, before he was back in his introverted state.

Her friends, her family, they marched with her towards the mystery in the trees.  

_ You bring us to the nicest damn places, Lavellan. _  Hawke should have been beside her, egging her on, using her smiling sarcasm to lighten the mood.  She’d banter back and forth with Varric  _ and it would be so good to see him without the loss behind his eyes _ and metaphorically tweak Solas’ nose, plot minor coups with Sera, and out-snob Vivienne.  

“You’re quiet, dove.  Does this lovely bastion of humidity take away your breath, too?”  Coolness settled around her shoulders, relieving some of the pressure in her lungs, and she couldn’t help but smile as Dorian moved alongside her.  “I’ve seen what you’ve been doing for the others, you can’t fool me.  I thought I’d repay the favor.  Of course, I have no problem with indulging myself as well.  This place is a hazard-filled pit.  And that’s being kind.  Are you sure you’re an elf, because this doesn’t exactly seem to be your type of atmosphere?”

“Babae always said I was a unique member of the People.  It must extend to my preferred climate.”

“Unique...that’s an understatement.”  His smile was refreshing amidst the drooping heat and flagging enthusiasm of the columns of people. “I’ve seen you bare-armed, stumbling, as we know that you stumble with great frequency and in such a way to be entirely endearing, through the drifts of snow around Skyhold.  This must be close to torture for you.”

“It makes the Western Approach feel like a pleasant breeze.”

“And how are you holding up otherwise?” His concern was genuine and she appreciated it.  “And don’t dare to try and lie to me, Grace. I'll know, and I'll be terribly disappointed in you.” 

She looked around to make sure she had a wide enough berth to speak freely. “I'm terrified, Dorian. I don’t know if I'm strong enough to face what's coming.  I'm not even sure what IS coming.”

“Adventure is never quite what we expect it to be. The stories, including and especially Varric’s, make them out to be grand romantic sweeping escapades with torture, revenge, dragons, chases, escapes, true love, miracles...and what they actually are...boredom, sand and grit in unpleasant places, and an undercurrent of pure terror.” He reached over, took her hand, stared down at the anchor. “You have all of that trapped inside of you, Rowan. I don't envy you in the slightest.” Placing her fingers back around the hart’s reins, he patted them slightly. “But do try and remember that you're not alone in this.”

She looked over the columns of people. “I know. The Inquisition is-”

“ _ Fuck _ the Inquisition, Grace. I'm talking about your rag-tag family that you've assembled and gotten to fall ass over teakettle in love with you. From that imposing Qunari ox to that impish elf girl to, well, yours truly, you have a knack for being adored.” Rowan’s eyes shone at his words, and he continued. “And let's not forget your Commander. He's struggling not to come and ride at your side, I'm quite sure. I think he'd have you astride that imposing mount riding in his arms if it wouldn't be considered both highly improper and a potential undermining of your authority.”

“Dorian…” she said warningly, and he laughed at her tone and the color in her cheeks. 

“Don’t even bother to deny  _ that _ ; it will end poorly for you.”

“Speaking of denial,” she responded, suddenly channeling a bit of Hawke’s mischief, “when are you going to stop dancing around  _ your _ affection for that ‘imposing Qunari ox,’ as you so eloquently put it? It's high time you put a stop to the unresolved tension and actually admitted how you feel...to both of you.”

His mouth opened, as though the words were ready to pour forth, but nothing came out. His color matched her own, and he sputtered a bit, ending with a muttered, “Good show, Inquisitor,” and bowing slightly on his horse before riding back into the crowd. She noted he took his blanket of cool air with him, but the atmosphere didn't seem quite as stifling as her soft laughter caught on the air and made its way through the ranks, lightening the spirits of those who heard it.

_ Nice play, Lavellan. You can have my share of the winnings when they actually lock horns. _

“What did you do? Sparkler looks like he swallowed the ass end of a fennec.” Varric’s voice was a welcome sound, the curiosity and hint of interest that had been missing of late creeping back into his tone.

“I think I helped a friend win a bet,” she replied, as she watched Bull’s head turn to follow the path of the Tevene who took pains to ignore him. Loudly. And with a great deal of flair.

“It is good to see you in high spirits, Da’len.” He materialized out of the forest, breaking away from the shadows between one breath and the next. “It will be important to hold onto that with what's to come next.”

“Cillian,” she replied, her body relaxing slightly as her teacher approached, apparently unphased by the withering heat. Not a hair seemed out of place, and there was no glisten of sweat on his brow. He could have been having tea instead of stalking through the rainforest from his look. “We came as soon as we received word. Has anything changed?”

He glanced at Varric who gave him a half smile. “We all like our moments of Grace,” he said, and pulled back, scanning the woods where the Dalish had materialized for further movements. He stilled, hand on Bianca’s stock. “Did you bring friends?”

The elf nodded. “I did. Most you know, though there is a young woman I don't believe you've had the pleasure to meet. She is headstrong, willful, and...generous with her profanity. I believe you should take a moment to meet her. She could use someone of your temperament, Varric Tethras.” He gestured to the leaves which had ceased their rustling. 

The moment of unconcealed pain was a flash across his face. “I suspect she gets herself a Qunari’s ass deep in trouble on a regular basis,” he said, the grin not exactly forced, but slightly sad. “I'll keep her from getting herself filled with holes.”  He moved towards the treeline, and Cillian turned his attention back to her after giving the person in the woods a slight nod. 

“Da’len, I suspect you know that the dangers here are far worse than could have been anticipated. The entire strength of the one who calls himself Corypheus is not waning as quickly as suspected. He has gathered his forces around him, including the one called Samson, the one your Commander is familiar with. I know you're aware of this, but those are not the only dangers waiting for you within.” He paused momentarily before continuing, pitching his voice low. “These woods hold old secrets, whispers that I hear both waking and sleeping.”

“Whispers of what? Of who?” She followed his example, speaking softly. “What else are we going to be facing?”

He shook his head. “They are ancient, as old as the trees, perhaps even before their sapling stage. But they are unhappy with our presence here, and wish to make that known. They view us and our enemy with the same hostility.” His eyes were sad. “I do not believe this will end well for anyone. I caution you, tread carefully and with respect for the land we're on, as well as who it is dedicated to. It will serve you as well as anything in the time to come.”

“Thank you, ha’hren,” she replied, “I will keep all of this in mind. Corypheus must be stopped, but I will do what I can to appease the land and whoever is tending it.”

“I can ask for no more, Rowan. Or is it this Grace that I hear on the lips of so many. Ironically fitting, but I believe your parents had it aright when they chose your name. You stand at the crossroads of so much. You are the gateway that will lead this Inquisition to its salvation if you stay upon the path you know to be the true one.”

She blushed at his words. “You have such faith in me. I hope it's not misplaced.”

“It’s not, Da’len,” he replied gently. “We know where you've come from, what you've done in your time since falling from the Fade. Your history leads us to the natural conclusion that you will do your utmost for everyone. We have no reason to doubt.” His words brokered no argument, and he moved swiftly to his next topic. “Have you found any new techniques with the work we've done to date while I've been away, or have you sat back eating chocolates while you waited for your scouts to send word?” There was a teasing tone to his voice, and the two began to discuss her discoveries in the intervening weeks.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

Ahead of them, Solas heard the whispers that the Dalish child, Cillian, had spoken of, the rumblings of ancient elvhen guardians dragged from their uthenera to defend once more the temple dedicated to their mistress.

He had known them before the geas had locked them in eternal servitude, slaves as surely as the ones he had tried to save. Mythal hadn’t asked for them, but they had etched her symbol in their skin, pledged themselves to her, begged to be taken in like lost children or the loyal Mabari the Ferelden humans took such pride in. She looked at them with something akin to pity, and gave them a purpose. He didn’t approve, but he knew that she wouldn't leave them aimless, rife for the exploitation of any number of their crueller kin.

_ Has the time come for our duty to be fulfilled? Has our mistress returned to us at last, defying death as we were sure she would? _

It was barely more than the air rustling through the trees, a breeze moving the leaves. But he could hear it in the Fade as clear as a bell on a cold day. He shut his eyes, letting himself drift to the other side of the Veil.

_ Mythal is not the one to concern yourselves with, davhen. The ones who have invaded your home must be stopped. They wish to take what you guard upon themselves, to destroy what you have been sworn to protect. _

There was silence. Then a stirring, as if a score of beings suddenly willed themselves into existence. Where there had been emptiness, suddenly there were shadowy individuals struggling to find purchase in reality. 

_ Fen’Harel. Why do you not drive these creatures who would desecrate our Lady’s holy temple away? You are he who shook the very foundations of the world.  _

He paused, considering how much to reveal to these children, woken so abruptly from their slumber. 

_ I have just come back to this world and must take time to become as I once was. But your mistress placed upon you the responsibility to keep her well sacred, guarded until she or someone worthy of the burden of her geas came forth. _

_ There is no one worthy not of the People.  _ The voices would not hear an argument.

_ The People are no longer as they were.  _ He couldn't keep the sorrow from his tone.  _ They are but echoes of what you remember. Shadows of our greatness.  _ An image of her floated unbidden before him. To call her a shadow was- _ no.  _ He struck his hand through the vision, swirling it away into the green. 

There was a distant note of harsh laughter in response to his action that he recognized and ignored. He would have to answer later, but it was not the time.

_ We remember our vows. We will guard this place into death so that we may be worthy of the love of our Mistress. None who threaten this shall pass without our blood staining the flagstones to the last. _

_ We come to aid you, though not all with me have pure intentions.  _

_ They are not yours? _

The question rankled. How many lifetimes had to pass where he would not mark others before it was believed that he would not countenance slavery.  _ They are their own, _ he said shortly.  _ They make their own choices for good or ill, and I only guide, I do not command. _

_ But you are the Dread Wolf! _

_ I am Solas, and I would have you maintain my identity as such.  _ He hesitated briefly, but knew he had to keep his true personage secret above all else.  _ Your Lady would want it that way. _

_ As our Lady wishes, it shall be, Fen’Harel, confidant to Mythal.  _ The figures disappeared, moving across the Veil to their respective stations.

He slipped back out of his trance to meet her eyes, blue as the waters that had flowed through Arlathan. “Ma’falon, are you alright?” Her hand was on his cheek and he could smell the winter on her, evergreen and new snow, even in the height of summer, the oppressive heat of the Wilds. He was weak, wanting to taste the cold on her skin, but he resisted, always resisted, denied, wrestled down the baser emotions that tried to take hold. 

“I am fine, Lethal'lan,” he replied, taking her fingers in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze before relinquishing them. “I needed to find some peace, that is all.” His voice betrayed no lie, perfectly even, but her face conveyed disbelief as surely as if he was Sera with his hand in a jar of cookies.

“Someday, Solas,” is all she said with a sad smile before quietly pulling away, but only far enough that her hart could comfortably ride alongside.

_ No, ma vhenan. Not if things go as planned.  _ He was saved from responding as the first signs of the ancient edifice came into view. “I believe we are at the entrance to the temple,” he said, gesturing. 

She took a deep breath. “It’s time to face our true enemy, it seems. I pray that we're enough to defeat them.”

"Go face your destiny, Rowan. It awaits you just around the corner.” He watched her straighten her shoulders, set her jaw, and with a gentle squeeze of her thighs on her mount, she rode forward to meet her Commander and the army which waited for her directive.

_ You must prevail. _


	64. That water lives so far— A neighbor from another world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choices are made, irrevocable decisions that may have long-lasting ramifications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the length of time between posts...things are slowly drawing to a close with the main part of the story. Thank you for sticking with me!

She stood before the well, the surface smooth as glass, undisturbed by the tumult surrounding it, unconcerned about its fate that would change in mere moments, depending on the decision she made.  It called to her, that stillness, ageless calm that hinted at so many secrets if she only broke the tension and fell forward, embracing it.  Cullen had told her of the pull of lyrium, in those nights when the nightmares came and he woke, shaking and cold, and she held him while the tremors and the memories and the demons that resided in his mind subsided, went back into their dark corners for another day.  He had spoken of the tendrils of desire that snaked around his arms and legs, trying to draw him closer to the release that waited inside the bottle if only he would reach out and take it.

She felt that now.  Invisible hands stroked along her skin, urging her closer, driving her to a frenzy of  _ need _ that she had to take what was being offered, that her thirst would be slaked if she just gave in.  That alone was enough to make her balk at throwing herself headlong into the depths of the waters.  She didn’t want to be controlled.  She didn’t want to  _ want _ to be controlled, to have choice ripped away from her, a geas as Morrigan had called it. 

She saw a similar gleam in the other woman’s features, mouth slightly open, breath hitched, eyes dilated as she stared at the expanse.  Her fingers trembled a bit as she too resisted the pull, but only because Rowan had told her to stop, to have caution, to  _ not take what is rightfully mine. _ That thought she mentally shook away.  This was not hers anymore than it was the Witch’s. It was a legacy to a people long gone, with only echoes that remained, a handful of guardians to protect the link to a dead god.

“Ma-ma’falon, do  _ not _ give into this call,” Solas said from behind her, his voice pitched slightly higher with the emphasis he was driving at.  “Let another have this burden.  You have enough already.”  He put a hand on her shoulder, tentative, a touch, something he had not initiated in months. “Trust in me, Rowan.”

“I am prepared to make this sacrifice, Inquisitor.” The raven-haired woman spoke, caressing the word sacrifice to make it obvious that she saw it as anything  _ but. _

She turned to look at her companions.  There was concern on each face, a group of people who had given her nothing but their loyalty and love.  And then she glanced back at their new member, the enigmatic woman who had led them to this point, had withheld information and manipulated facts to suit her own needs, but who wanted to stop the plot of the monster who was even now in pursuit of them as much as any of the rest of them.  

Who had a son.

The decision had been made a decade before they stood in front of the Well, when a woman had given birth to a boy who had become her whole life.  She would do what needed to be done, embrace it even, but she would be tethered by something that could prevent her from being what Rowan knew she valued above all else.  It had been in every movement to protect Kieran from the world around them, to keep him sheltered and safe, to bargain her own life to guard his.

It was Varric’s eyes she met at last, the dwarf who had lost so much already, who knew he could and would likely continue to lose friends and loved ones along the way.  He knew the value of family, and he nodded slowly when she willed him to understand what she was about to do.  He would make sure the others wouldn’t interfere.

“I’ll drink from the Well.”

“Vhen-Rowan, no-”

“Inquisitor you-”

“I  _ led  _ you here,  _ want _ to do this, and yet you choose to take this upon yourself?”  The venom in Morrigan’s tone drew her attention back.  

“I choose this, Lady Morrigan, because I made you a promise in Skyhold.  You and your son would be under my protection and the protection of the Inquisition, and no harm would come to you.”  She stepped forward slightly, her height not quite matching the other woman’s, but she had come too far to be cowed by a sharp tongue and a hot temper.  “If you did this, if I  _ allowed  _ you to do this, then I would be breaking my word.  That I will not do.”  More softly then, “Your son needs you.  And this is my role as Herald, as Inquisitor.  I take on the necessary mantles, take on the risks, because I vowed to protect you all to the best of my ability.” She looked out over the water once more.  “And this is the best I can do.”

“You do not know what you’re taking on, Inquisitor.” The other elf’s voice was choked.  She wouldn’t look back at him, because she didn’t want him to think that she would waver.  That she could.  “What is locked away there could destroy you.”

“What is living on my palm could destroy me, lethal’lin.  What comes out of those Rifts could rip me apart.  This is one more battle, like all of the others.”  She closed her eyes, drew her courage around her like a cloak, and stepped forward.  “If I don’t...save yourselves, regroup, and find a way to stop Corypheus.  I know you will.”

She expected it to be warm, still water in a climate that was as hot and cloying as the Arbor Wilds should have been tepid at the very least, but it was cold enough to force a sigh from her throat, cool relief from the sweltering misery of their surroundings.  But there was only a moment before she plunged under and the world went hazy and dark.

There was a moment where she thought she was going to drown, when she opened her mouth and the water poured in, though she neither choked nor drank.  It was as though the liquid simply merged with her being, became part of her skin, the air she breathed, the space she occupied.  There was the pool of water and then there was the room.  

Even later when Varric asked her to describe what she had seen, she was never quite sure.  It was indistinct, like a moment in the Fade, incorporeal and inexplicable.  The voices were what she remembered.

_ You have taken on the Well, child. Do you truly know what you have done… _

_ She has come to us to take the knowledge of the people.  If she only knew the truth… _

_ Is she worthy or wanting...it is so hard to tell after so long… _

A whisper stood out from the others.   _ I recognize her blood as mine...diluted by time...yet still she is of what we once were...she can take the geas upon herself and not lose herself… _

She finally found her voice as the others ebbed and flowed around her. “I have come to stop the Elder One known as Corypheus.  He seeks to gain access to the eluvians, to tear down the Fade and reshape the world in his image.  Please,” she added.  “Please help me stop him.”

_ She asks for so little and so much...what an infant she is… _

_ The power she wields is not unfamiliar, and is strong enough to bear the burden.  She will be their salvation...and ours…she doesn’t know yet how far her magic will take her...she is already becoming as we once were… _

_ Impossible… _

_ She has  _ his  _ imprint upon her...she has been marked once already...she can be marked again… _

_ She needs to see, to know, to understand...she must face this Elder One with her mind whole… _

_ Give her what she asks...begin the process...let her see truth as it was meant to be… _

A swirling rush of air whipped her hair around her, pressed her robes tightly to her skin, and once again she felt a merging with the wind as it crept inside, tugged and pulled and snagged itself on her. She felt a sudden snap around her neck before stillness settled around her once more.

_ Go now, Child, and save as you have chosen to do...we will aid you...you have given yourself to Mythal freely, and she rewards those brave enough to bow before her… _

A laugh echoed through the halls, haughty but not malevolent, more a sound that Sera would make if she was ancient and her mischief amused her through lifetimes as opposed to moments.

The darkness was suddenly gone, and she blinked at the light that assaulted her eyes, her vision swimming before becoming clearer than it had ever been.  She could  _ see _ the power around her, the way it danced at the edges of her own skin, azure and swirling, what had only been in her mind’s eye laid out before her as she stared up at the sky above her.

Strong and gentle hands cradled her, held her tightly for a moment in a heady rush of autumn leaves and the musk of fur as the verdant light of his magic outlined his skin.  She looked up at his face and  _ saw _ him, truly saw the power that he held in check, kept hidden behind his quiet facade. It was verdant and beautiful, nature unrestrained by the limitations of mortality, and she gasped, reaching up to touch his cheek, the blue mingling with the green and becoming for just a moment a blinding mix of both colors before separating and chasing one another in swirls and eddies between each other.  “Oh,  _ Solas, _ ” was all she could manage, understanding so much in that one moment, even if she couldn’t put words to what she saw and felt between them.  Tears touched the corners of her eyes, as she couldn’t contain the emotion that burgeoned forth.

His smile was as sad as it ever was.  “I know, lethal’lan. Rowan.” He took a thumb and wiped away the moisture from the corners of her eyes before helping her to stand within the circle of his  arms for one brief moment, torturing himself with her nearness and newfound awareness battering at his defenses in a relentless assault to knock them aside.  “I wish you had not-”

Noises from the other end of the hall broke them out of their reverie and she looked up to see mad red and viscous black moving towards them steadily, relentlessly.  “Quickly!” she said, and turned to the eluvian that stood over the now empty well.  She ran towards it, unheeding of Solas’ trailing fingers as she slipped away from him, and placed both hands on the shimmering surface. “Everyone, go through now!”  There was no time to waste, no time to think about the choice she was making as she drove the others through the portal, keeping herself between them and Corypheus, his rage and hatred barreling down on them, a tangible force that pushed against her skin and made her want to vomit with its malevolence.  Color and power moved past her in a rush until she could see that the others had gone and it was only herself between the Elder One and the eluvian.

“I gave myself to you, now do as you have sworn,” she said between clenched teeth as she plunged into the glowing surface, pulling the magic away from it once she stepped through, taking the key out of the lock and sealing the eluvan shut.  She could feel the reverberation as he crashed against the now-solid surface, hear the echoing of his rage-filled cry when he was thwarted once more in his attempt to rip down the Fade. She leaned against the frame of the mirror and panted at the exertion she had put forth.

“He will have to find another way now, Inquisitor,” Morrigan said, her voice quieter, less haughty than it had been when standing inside the walls of the temple.  “You have prevented this breach, at the very least.”

“We have done so together, Child,” she said in a voice that was not quite her own, another’s words layering over her own.  “Maybe in time you’ll see that not everything has to be done by yourself.”

The other woman was silent, and Rowan hazarded a look to the side where she was standing.  Her eyes were wide and she actually took a step back.  “No.  ‘Tis impossible.”  She shook her head.  “There is much of the magic you have taken into yourself that has yet to be understood.” Yet she sounded unconvinced of her own words.

“Not that this isn’t fascinating conversation and yes I’d love to know what it means that Grace is now beholden to some dead elven goddess, but do you think we can get the fuck out of this place...whatever it is?” Varric’s voice echoed from behind her and she finally let go of her grip on the wooden lintel, finally convinced that Corypheus could not follow them, and she turned her back on the darkened eluvian.  “If I look around too much my head feels like it’s going to rip open.”

“Yes,” Cassandra spoke up. “I would greatly...it is very  _ loud  _ here.” She had her eyes closed and her hand at her forehead, as though trying to smooth away an unpleasant sensation.  Rowan with her new vision could see the white edges of...something…that outlined the Seeker’s form.  It was comforting, soothing in its gentle pulsating rhythm.  It made the imposing woman seem...welcoming.

“It will take time, Inquisitor.  For now assume that you are seeing merely the outermost layer of clothing on your companions.” Solas’ voice was quiet, teaching once more, and she looked at him, the beauty of his magic overlapping his form, and willed herself to not be drawn in again by the allure of it, to hold onto herself and not get lost in the patterns that seemed to dance over him with every gesture.  

_ Breathe deep.   _ Cillian’s words echoed once more, and she closed her eyes, drawing back the power that she could feel rushing around her, pulling it into that crystalline snowflake center, holding it there so that she could continue on without getting lost in the mesmerizing glow of magic.  Opening her eyes once more, the colors and patterns persisted, but they were bearable, and she could once again concentrate on the world around her as a whole.

“We need to get back to Skyhold.  I think...I think I know what needs to be done next, and it will take preparation...and quite a bit of convincing.”

“Lead the way, Inquisitor,” Morrigan said, and Rowan was about to protest that she didn’t know where they were, but a glance at the eluvians around them made her realize that she in fact recognized them, some vaguely, some with absolute surety that she knew where they led, and the one that would lead her home stood out like a beacon.

As they walked along, she stopped before a single frame, its intricate swirls holding her fascinated for a moment, and she placed a hand on it.  “To see if it is fate or chance,” she said with a voice that again wasn’t quite her own.  And then she continued on her way, leading her group back towards home.

*********************

They had been told to prepare for something like what happened.  That they wouldn’t come back out the way they came, not if things went according to plan...or horribly wrong.  And in the heat of battle, when blood and worse things were coating his surcoat, staining his armor with crimson and black, he could only spare so much concern for her and still survive.

_ Live, Cullen.  Not for me. For you. _

She would have been furious if he had been run through while he was distracted with thoughts of her. But the situation was eerily similar to Adamant; her diving headlong into the unknown of magic and the Fade, and though Dorian assured him that if anyone knew what they were doing “Solas and our dove do,” it didn’t help to ease the knot in the pit of his stomach when he thought of the loss he had felt when she had disappeared before.

What Dagna had created helped to bring Samson low, satisfactorily so, though he refrained from landing the killing blow himself. He was the Commander of the Inquisition, not its judge.  That was also reserved for her.   

She would show mercy.

His anger at that inevitable decision tore at him.  He wanted what he saw as justice for the lives destroyed at the hands of a sycophantic madman.  Being removed from existence was the only way he could see of beginning to find that balance again.

Mercy was her way.

He would accept her decision.  And then he would have to accept that what he sought would go unfulfilled.  At least in the way that he desired.  That was why he was the Commander, he supposed, and she was the one who had to sit on the throne and make the choices that she did.  The ones that were, she felt, the best for the Inquisition, for Thedas.

Not ones that would slake the bloodlust.

He leaned heavily against one of the statues in the courtyard, using a rag to clean yet more blood off of his sword.  The sweat slid down the back of his neck, cooling his overheated body in the sweltering of the temple, but did little to ease the anger in his heart and mind at the waste of humanity that was Samson’s legacy.

“Better her than us.” The rumbling bass of The Iron Bull pulled him out of his darker thoughts and he looked up at him, something that was disconcerting when he had always been the tallest in whatever situation he found himself in.  “Me, I’d lop his head off, shove it up his ass, and parade it through Thedas on a pike.” He shrugged. “But that’s me.  She’s got a different method.  Not wrong, just...less theatrical.”

“Who ever heard of a theatre-inclined ox-man?”  Dorian said, coming up to the other two.  “The idea is rather like watching a dog do a card trick.”

“I have layers, Altus.”  His smile was feral.  “Keep talking like that and I might let you peel off a few.”  

The Tevene flushed a bit, but stood his ground. “The odd thing is that you think I’d grant you the privilege of doing so with anything other than a solid bolt of lightning.”

“Promises, promises, Dorian.” 

Cullen couldn’t keep the smirk from his face as he watched the two circle around each other.  There was something calming about the two maintaining their tension through even the most difficult of situations.  If they weren’t taking swipes at each other, something was terribly wrong.   It eased the tightness in his chest somewhat at the knowledge that he didn’t know where she was, or when he was going to see her again.

_ If I’m going to see her-no.  I will.  I cannot doubt that. _

A noise from the other side of the temple had him look up and he saw the wretched form of Corypheus’ dragon swoop down and take something up in his claws. The Magister himself, no doubt.  Which meant that she had succeeded in preventing his escape into the eluvian.

One of the members of the scouting party, a blonde who, if she had been perhaps less covered in mud and various parts of the forest floor may have been considered attractive came up to him.  “Ser, the Nightingale wishes for you to be informed that the Temple has been secured and the troops are awaiting orders.”  She didn’t stand on ceremony, wasn’t regimented enough to be part of the army, but she held herself like someone who had seen plenty of fights, and was always ready to end one more.

“Thank you Scout…”

“Cousland, Commander.”  Without another word she turned and left, not waiting for him to dismiss her..

He looked at the other two who were still slinging innuendos at each other and nodded before heading out to meet his men, take stock of their casualties, and prepare to write his reports.  He had something to do. Something to take his mind off of her unknown fate, something that would keep him from having to struggle with his faith and the testing that it underwent every time she went into battle and the outcome was not only unknowable, but inconceivable. He was the Commander, and he would fulfill his duty, bring her army home to await their next mission, one that would hopefully end their fight with Corypheus and heal Thedas.

One that would let them rest at last.

 


	65. All that you are is all that I'll ever need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time and distance is irrelevant for those who are joined by love. Loss is felt as keenly, reunions are as sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW
> 
> *deep breaths*
> 
> There's a first time for everything. I'd ask you to be kind...but I'd rather you be honest.

It had taken everything she had not to run to him immediately after emerging from the eluvian.  So much had changed in what felt like such a short time.  _ That  _ particular illusion was shattered as a scout approached her immediately while another turned and went out the door of the alcove, undoubtedly to report to the Nightingale that they had returned.  

“Your Worship,” he said, fist over his breast. “I was told to inform you that it has been one month since you left the Arbor Wilds.”

“Andraste’s tits,” Varric muttered.  “I  _ hate _ Fade shit.” There were moments when Varric spoke simple truths, and this was one of them.  She knew he was thinking of Hawke in that moment...she was as well, and what the far side of the Veil had cost them.  What magic had cost them all.

“That was to be expected. Time moves quite differently on the other side of the Veil, and the Crossroads would be similarly affected.”  Morrigan nodded, but Rowan saw the tension behind her eyes, the worry, she was sure, for her son.

The voices had been whispering to her since she stepped out of the Well, quiet wisps of thought, disjointed images that were a distraction, but not overwhelming.  But when they looked at the Witch, their buzzing increased.  “Go and see to Kieran,” she said without preamble.  “He is waiting for you.”  _ Child waiting with the weight within, needing a mother and a keeper both. _

Again, the other mage looked at her for a moment, as though trying to discern something of what had transpired when she had taken up the geas.  But with the mention of her son’s name, her instinct took over and she nodded, not hesitating further before heading to her chambers.  The crackling purple of her magic slid across her skin, more prominent when the worry for her child came to the surface, trailing in her wake as she rounded the corner.

She returned her attention to the scout.  “Thank you.  Will you inform C-the Commander and the Ambassador that we have returned as well? I am sure they will want to have a meeting before long to discuss what has occurred.”

“Of course, Lady Herald.  Anything you desire.” He turned on his heel and left without another word.

“Inquisitor.  I need to take some time to see what has happened since your decision. You should come and find me when you are ready to discuss what you have learned.” His voice sounded different after the Well.  Older.  Tired, and tinged with anger.  She turned to look at him, but his eyes were shuttered, and his magic was pulled back inside of him so that it was almost invisible.  Almost.  But she could see it dance across the surface of him in faint glowing green swirls of power.  

“Solas, I-” he didn’t let her finish. 

“Later.”  He strode off on his heel, and part of her wanted to follow.  The rest of her, however, the part that knew what  _ home _ was...it held back.  

“Ignore Chuckles, he'll work his way out of whatever broodiness has his head stuck up his ass. Go see Curly, Grace.” The voice from her elbow...Varric knew.  It must have shown on her face, the need, the desire to be where she belonged again. “It’s about damn time one of us had a minute or two of happiness in this Maker-fucked nightmare of an Age.”

“There is much that needs to-” 

“It can wait.”  His voice was gentle, but it brokered no argument, gave even Cassandra pause.  And Rowan had already started out the doorway.

“Varric, the Inquisitor is needed.”

“The  _ Inquisitor  _ needs a break, Seeker. Give her that.”

“I will...go report to Leliana of what we know.”

“You get right on that. I’m having a drink.  Or a keg.”  He was bone-weary, tired of the Fade, tired of feeling like they were delaying the inevitable shitstorm of loss and death that was coming, tired of waiting for Grace to go out in a blaze of green fire that would spell the end of all of them.  Tired of missing  _ her.  _ “Definitely a keg.”

 

***********

 

The voices seemed to quiet more and more as she strode through Skyhold, as though they were guests who had excused themselves, and scattered to see the different parts of the keep, leaving her in relative peace.   _ Maybe they think they’re home, too, _ she thought absently. 

She had been away far too long, even before she found out about the gap in time between leaving the Wilds and returning to Skyhold. Oh, she could fool herself into thinking that it was just the hold she missed, and the camaraderie, her family. And it was true, she did miss all of those things. But beyond all that, she missed  _ him _ . The battlements when he walked them with her, the gardens when he was taking a moment away from leading the troops, but still fighting his way to victory, only on a much smaller scale. In those moments she saw the boy he had been, training with a wooden sword while his brother and sisters played around him, teasing, but encouraging.  The boy who didn't know the nightmares and blood and addiction that would follow him all the way to now. 

The same boy who would overcome the horrors he had faced, would admit to his torture-induced prejudices, and fight them so that he came out the victor, instead of the memory of what he had suffered. And who would give a damaged, bare-faced and clumsy Dalish mage open access to his heart and his life.

She took a deep breath and looked over the courtyard, the place that had become her world and her sanctuary.  "Yes. Well. I think five minutes is more than enough pretense." A page who was walking by was startled by her voice. 

"Of course, your Worship," he replied, having absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but feeling agreement was in his best interest. 

She smiled. "My apologies, I was working out...strategy."

"Yes, your Worship." He hurried off, wondering if the Herald wasn't either having a breakdown or communicating with Andraste Herself after returning from that crumbling temple in the Arbor Wilds. In either case, he was stopping at the chapel to light a candle.

Rowan, for her part, turned and headed to the man who held her heart and her song, sliding into the shadows made by the open door while he conferred with his soldiers. The woman may have wanted to wrap herself around him, but the Inquisitor was loathe to interrupt. And they both greatly approved of the sight he made when he was in his element as Commander. She was content to stand and watch him work.

And then he met her gaze.

She was back, and alive, and she looked at him-Andraste's Grace-like he was a banquet and she was a starving woman.

He wasn't even sure what he said to his men once he saw her. He vaguely hoped it wasn't a growl or something obscene, but whatever it was, it caused them to scatter. Quickly, which was exactly what he wanted.

He shut the door behind them, hopefully with enough force to give them the hint that he was not to be disturbed, interrupted, or otherwise called upon. His heart had returned, and he needed time to readjust to her rhythm.

"Wishing we were somewhere else?" He didn’t know her hips could tilt like that, and the sultry tone to her voice had his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

He rubbed the back of his neck to try and drive his train of thought somewhere, anywhere, because Maker he loved her, he had missed her beyond reason, he was practically panting for her, but....  

Suddenly he was talking about what came after the war, what would happen to them. He had never thought about after, except as some vague, far off moment that others would celebrate as he prepared for what came next, the next war, the next struggle, the next temptation to lose himself in the oblivion of blue.

He paced the room, unsure of so much, when it came to her. She was Dalish; would she want to stay with him afterwards, even with the banishment from her clan? There had to be places she could go so she wasn’t isolated from her people. Would she-

"Cullen. 'Ma vhen'an, you're a thousand miles away from me."

He looked at her, the woman who was the culmination of his whole world. He wanted to spend a thousand lifetimes lost in her eyes, sink into her and feel the joining of their bodies. He wanted everything. "Do you think, after all this is over...will you and I...can you see...us?" He was unsure, hesitant.

She moved in front of him, tilted his face until their gazes met, and his fears washed away. "I'm here. Now. And I'm not going anywhere that isn't with you." And then of course her hand resting on the wood behind her slipped and knocked a bottle to the floor, breaking them out of the moment.

He glanced at the shattered glass, then at her, who bit her lip with the same look of chagrin she always got when she ran into something or knocked something over. And he grinned, a feral, predatory look that shot desire through her like lightning.

Cullen reached behind her and swept his desk clear, before catching her around the waist and settling her on the surface. She squeaked in surprise when he did, and then he leaned in and kissed her.  Really, it was more of an all-out assault on her mouth, tongue demanding entrance that she immediately gave, so that he could taste her. His hands didn't touch her, just rested on either side of her thighs. 

She had her arms behind her, holding her up, so when he leaned into her, she scooted back, reclining until she met the hard surface of his desk, and he was propped over her, keeping his weight off, their bodies still barely touching, though his knee was between her legs, and she had an overwhelming desire to rub herself against him. But first, there was a rather hefty stumbling block in her way.

Turning her head to break their kiss succeeded in having him trail his lips across her cheek to her ear, where he caught the lobe in his teeth. "Creators, Cullen!" and her hips bucked slightly against him, the clinking that met them reminding her what she wanted to say, before the world went soft at the edges.  "Maker, there's nothing I want more than you, but the armor...."

He moved away from her reluctantly, the mix of consternation and desire on his face enough to send her into gales of laughter.  It was such a clear, light sound that he couldn’t help but smile.  The moments when he saw her carefree were few and far between, fewer and farther since Adamant, he was sure they would be almost nonexistent after the Wilds, and he treasured any that he got to experience. She was still laughing, propped up on her elbows as he removed the cloak and chestplate, years of practice making it quick work. The laughter turned quieter, though, and stopped, as he removed his other pieces, locking eyes with her before he pulled his shirt over his head. 

"Oh." He was magnificent; the Maker and Creators working in tandem had only an inkling of the beauty they had created. She itched to touch his skin, golden and chiseled, perfection marred in areas by scars that told his life's story. She sat up, held out a hand to him, and he took it. Her other hand slid to his back, the urge to feel his skin too much for her to resist, and she urged him closer. "Silk and stone," she mumbled, then, tentatively, leaned in and kissed the center of his chest, tongue darting out to taste him. Steel and sweat and something deliciously him. She hummed in appreciation

He groaned. "Maker, Rowan." His hand had gone to her waist, but he turned his attention to her top, the need to meet skin to skin suddenly imperative.  But he found new resistance in the many tiny clasps of her frontispiece.  “Andraste’s. . .who designed this?” He met her eyes, apologizing. “It’s been...a long time for me, I….”

She put her hands over his, and realized they were both trembling.  “It’s been forever for me, Cullen, so I’m not going to be comparing your prowess at removing my clothing to anyone.”  She tried to smile, but she needed him so badly, her desire was so intense, that she was fairly certain it was more of a grimace.

His hands stilled.  “Forever.  So you haven’t...before?”

Rowan shook her head, moving his hands away to continue to unbuttoning so his nobility didn't get the best of him.  “There weren’t exactly offers or opportunities before the Inquisition came along, at least none I was interested in.”  She blew a stray lock of hair out of her face.  “Only you."

Cullen pulled back slightly, and looked down at his Inquisitor, splayed across his desk like a wanton present, hair mussed and eyes bright, unwrapping herself under his gaze.  “Maker’s breath, what did I ever do to deserve you?”

She kept her eyes on him as she continued to unclasp her top, the metal clicking in time with her words.  “You've held me, saved me, loved me.  You fight your demons daily, and you do it while leading our troops to victory.  You’ve let me meet who you were, good and bad.”  She finally had all of the clasps undone, and tossed the offending piece of clothing aside.

Shaking, she reached for the ties on her breast band, but he stopped her, that lip, oh, that lip curling at her like he was her very own desire demon come to play. "I do think I remember how this works," he said, brushing his hands over the swells as he untied the fabric.  She gasped and arched into his touch. 

"Cullen, Gods, you're...ahhh." Everywhere he touched was on fire. She knew the mechanics, how sex worked, she was no blushing virgin without a clue, but reality was much, much better than clinical facts and worlds beyond Swords & Shields. Not that she'd mention that to Varric.

Freed from their binding, he took her breasts in his hands, thumbs stroking lightly over her nipples, which made her arch into his touch.  Copying her, he leaned in and placed a kiss in the center of her chest, but he and his tongue decided to take its time exploring her skin, lapping from the valley between her breasts up to the peak, swirling over the swollen bud. She whimpered, clutching his head in her hands, her back against the cool wood, as he tasted and teased, moving from one to the other, making sure to lavish attention on them both.  

His lips trailed down her chest to her stomach, and her breath hitched. "Maker, you taste like snow, did you know that? Clean and bright and bracing." He mumbled into her skin, the vibrations tickling her, and she let out a chuckle. He looked up from his explorations. "Oh, sensitive, are we?" Cullen brushed his hands down his sides, lightly skimming over her skin, and Rowan shivered.

"Unfair play, Commander," she gasped. "When do I get my chance?"

"Once I have tasted and touched and stroked every inch of you."  He ran his hands down her legs, suddenly impatient to see all of her. "Unless you would protest that. I'm more than happy to stop." His fingers lingered at the laces of her boot, lightly skimming where her pants met the cuff.

She had stopped thinking somewhere in the middle of his declaration. "Don't stop. Please," she implored.  Taking that as his cue, he made short work of her footwear, tossing them aside as she untied her waistband. He loomed over her, hands at her waist, the question in his eyes. She nodded, and he pulled them away, taking her smallclothes with them and leaving her naked to him.

"Do you have any idea, any, how beautiful you are?" She was so pale she practically glowed, the contrast of snow white skin and the dark hair at the juncture at her thighs beckoned him. A light sheen of sweat was beginning to cause her glisten in the candlelight. But her eyes, so expressive, were dark with desire, watching his every move with anticipation.  He drew in a breath, overwhelmed by her, and the way she made him feel with just a look.

The need to feel her, to taste her, was impossible to resist, and he gently spread her legs open, letting his fingers glide lightly over the softness of her inner thighs, and she trembled. At last his fingers found her center, and she rocked her hips into his hand, her wetness coating him.

The feel of him, so light on her, teasing her with the lightest touch drove her mad, and she cried out his name. He slid a finger inside of her, and she squeezed him with her inner muscles, unused to the feeling, but it was so very- 

His thumb brushed over the bud of nerves at her center, and she froze, the pleasure so intense it was almost painful. He did it again, and she made a small pleading noise in the back of her throat. "Yesssss," she hissed, and he grinned and stroked harder, sliding another finger inside of her, stretching her open, sliding in and out slowly. Her stomach clenched and her hands scrambled for purchase on the desk as he continued her assault, sensation building and tightening in her center. And then his mouth replaced his thumb, and the world shattered at the feel of his tongue rasping over the nub, relentless. "Cullen, oh Gods, oh Maker, isalan...." She chanted his name as she came apart under his hands and he tasted her pleasure as she bucked against him.

Slowly, he let her come down from the climax, sliding his fingers out of her, and moving his mouth away, breathing over her heated skin and making her shudder. He was painfully hard, but he loved the image of her splayed out and spent on his desk, knowing he had brought her there, that he was the first to see her like this. He never wanted to put anything on the surface ever again, just keep the memory of her imprinted on it.

"What?" she panted, looking up at him, eyes unfocused.

"I love you," he said simply, leaning in to kiss her, and she tasted herself on his lips. She reached up and slid her hands down his back, fingernails lightly scoring down his skin. He growled against her mouth, and thrust against her. The leather was torturous friction against her skin.

"I love you, too." She wrapped her legs around his. "Please let me feel you...." She didn’t quite know what to ask.

He pulled back, and she followed him, reaching for his waist and fumbling at the ties. He stilled her hands with a smile, taking the time to pull off his boots before removing his pants. "Creators," she breathed when he freed his shaft from his smalls, and slid her fingers tentatively along the length, before wrapping them around him and squeezing.

He groaned, and gently pulled her hand away. "You have no idea how much...but I won't last if you touch me, and Maker, I need to be inside you."

His words, the almost painful tone, shot through her, causing her to ache, and she pulled his head down to hers. "Cullen, please."

He tilted her hips up, and slowly slid into her, trying to go slowly, to give her time to adjust to him, but she was impatient, and thrust up, taking him deeply into her, and he thought his heart stopped.

The feel of him filling her, stretching her, made her want more, and she tried to take him deeper, to have him completely sheathed in her. There was no pain, just the strange friction of having him inside, as he pulled slowly out, and eased back in.  Instinctively, she rolled her hips, and he moaned into her mouth. He picked up the pace, thrusting into her deeply and retreating, the two reenacting an ancient dance as the pleasure coiled inside of her again, making her pant and gasp as she reached for the crest that was just out of her reach.

He tangled his tongue with hers as he neared his release, and groaned as she squeezed him with her inner muscles, thrusting harder and faster as control fled. Finally, with a muffled cry, he came, spilling his seed inside of her, and she followed him, swelling and breaking free as she screamed out his name.

They panted and gasped, and he rolled over, bringing her on top of him as he slid out of her so he wouldn’t crush her under him. They were both slick with sweat, and he brought her hand up and dropped kisses along the palm where the mark glowed faintly.

The cold pinpricks had him looking up to the ceiling, where flecks of white were floating down. "Rowan."

She opened heavy-lidded eyes, sapphires that looked at him with love and banked desire. "Mmm?"

"It's snowing. In my office." She looked up, took it in, and blushed, her skin flushing.

"I...." She put her face in his shoulder. "That's an interesting side effect," she mumbled. After a moment, her head shot up and she looked almost fearful. "You're not...you don’t think I would ever hurt you?"

"Maker, Rowan." He brushed the strands of hair that had stuck to her forehead away from her face. "No, I don’t. Nor do I think you're going to turn into an abomination in the throes of passion."  A snowflake landed on her shoulder, and he kissed it as it melted away. "I may have not always trusted mages, but I trust you." He chuckled, the sound warm and real. "If I didn't, I can guarantee that I wouldn't be lying in a very compromising position with you, on my desk, in my office." His look was pure mischief. "It wouldn't be my first choice, but I'd have no shame in being found like this, snow and all."

She glanced down at the two of them, their bodies intertwined. "I can't complain." After a moment more of watching the flakes float down around them, she flicked her wrist, and the little storm dissipated. 

He pulled her down for another kiss, loving the little thrill of desire that shot through him when her lips met his with a sigh. "Shall we try again, perhaps with some cushions under us? As much as I am very fond of this piece of furniture, I'm rather partial to pillows."

Rowan grin slightly. “I wholeheartedly agree, though I still hold your mattress suspect as a potentially cursed item.” She rolled off of him, banged her shin on the corner of the desk, and cursed. Glancing back at him, he was gazing at her appreciatively.

"I could take a lifetime to watch you."

"You enjoy watching me cause myself harm?"

"You move fearlessly." He sat up, and she saw the muscles bunch and release as he stretched, unconcerned for his nakedness in front of her. "You don't calculate each step; you move as you need to, and it's beautiful." He moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle. "I love you all the more because of it."

"I still think perhaps padding all the sharp edges in Skyhold is a good precaution." She took one more moment to relish the feel of his skin against hers, before she broke out of his embrace, grabbed her clothing, and headed for the ladder, a little wobbly from their exertions. Taking a deep breath, she began to climb. A noise behind her told her Cullen was following. "If I move fearlessly on this ladder, we're both ending up on cold flagstone, naked, and much the worse for wear."

"I'll catch you." His voice was solemn. "I'll never let you fall, at least not alone."

She clambered onto the loft, dropped her items, and turned to wait for her Commander. "You told me you trust me. And I trust you, will always trust you." She put out a hand to him, and he took it, accepting her help. "You're infuriating at times, especially when you're right, but I cherish it all." She kept his hand as she moved to the bed, crawling on top of the covers. "I cherish you."

Leaning in, his breath whispered over her skin, making her shiver and reach for him. "Thank the Maker for that."  

The snow drifted down on them again before the night was through, the ever-watching stars making it sparkle like crystals, but neither one seemed to mind as the flakes met heated skin.

 

***********

 

It was the sound that woke her; a broken cry that had her blinking at the light. It repeated, strangled and pained, a knife twisting through her. At first she thought it was from within her own mind, the other beings who had taken residence suddenly deciding that it was time to raise a cacophony, but they were silent and she realized the source was beside her. 

"No...no...." Rolling on her side, still disoriented, he thrashed on top of the sheets, his naked form taut with fear and anger. Heedless of anything but calming him, she grabbed Cullen's arms, before pressing her body on top of his. 

"Cullen. Cullen, wake up. Please, vhen'an." His eyes flew open, not seeing her, or anything in the present. 

"Get away! No! I don't believe you! I will not give in! I will...not...." He seemed to stop struggling, and she let go of his arms to brush her hands across his face. 

"You're here, with me, and you're safe. Come back, please." His eyes slowly focused, the dilation creeping back to let the gold return. Recognition was tinged with fear.

"Maker, Rowan. Did I...did I hurt you?" His hands lay at his side, fists clenching and unclenching.

"No, of course not! And even if you had...I'm the last person you need to apologize to about nightmares." She stretched up and kissed him softly.

"I never seem to outrun them," he mumbled against her lips.

"You will." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "And if not, we'll stand and fight them together. I love you."

His arms came around her, suddenly, holding her to him, just the slightest bit of desperation as his hands ran up and down her back. "And I love you. I don't want you to worry about me."

"Let me worry, Commander. I have a vested interest in your health and well-being." She rested her head on his chest. "I want to help."

"I know. It's...difficult to share weakness with another, especially when you're trained not to show any. But you have seen some of the worst of me." He seemed to come to a decision, and rolled to his side, taking her with him, legs tangled with hers. His eyes, golden and leonine, drank her in. "You told me once your father said your path was different from his. I think he meant that where he healed physical wounds, you heal something deeper. It's why we all come to you, bare our secrets, look for you to help us." His hand ran down her side, sliding across her skin softly, tracing the rises and falls of her body.  "It's a special kind of ability, something else beautiful about you."

Rowan blinked. "I'd never...it's not magic. I'd know if I pulled from the Fade. I just listen, when someone needs something, wants something. But there’s no spell involved."

He chuckled. "I may be an old, broken-down ex-Templar, but I would know if there was magic involved. No, it's just a part of who you are. People, your people, know they can come to you. You put us at ease." He put her hand over his heart. "You bring me peace."

She felt the steady beat of his lifeblood under her palm, so different from the erratic pulse before he woke up. "I'm glad." Her fingers curled lightly on his skin. "Do you want to tell me? About the nightmares?"

"This is not the way I intended this morning to go." He sighed.

"This is not how I intended my life to go, frankly. But I have to say that at this moment, despite the nightmares, the Fade, Corypheus, Hawke, and everything else, I'm happy. Because I'm with you." Her grin lit her face. 

"Maker, I can resist nothing when you smile." And pulled her closer, tucking her head under his, and began to speak, slowly and hesitantly, about the terrors that stalked him when he closed his eyes, the agony in his soul that he had endured for years. 

What happened in the Circle Tower scarred him deeply and terribly.  He still had visions of the demon that tried to break his soul, did break him so utterly and completely that he lost himself to pain and horror.  And after he escaped, after the Hero of Ferelden set him free, he lost himself again, to anger, to vengeance, only his soldier training and discipline keeping him from crossing the line to becoming a monster. And still they haunted him, ghosts of the dead that he felt responsible for, years later.

She hadn’t known any of this, couldn’t have imagined, and she wept against his chest as she heard the toll it had all taken in his voice. He ripped open the scars, left himself bare and broken before her, and she took it all in, made his pain hers. The move to Kirkwall and the betrayal by a Commander he respected and had put his trust in, and his own self-loathing when he didn’t see her for what she was: a madwoman. Being recruited to the Inquisition, and knowing the life that he was choosing to leave behind, and the risk he was taking, because it was right, after living under the misery of so much that was wrong.

It all poured out of him, and he didn’t even notice his own tears until she had pulled back and started wiping them away, making small sounds of comfort, but letting him speak, until he ran out of words and just lay, gasping through the end of his story. “Ma vhen'an, ir abelas, ma vhen'an.” 

He leaned down and kissed her, seeking calm in her taste.  Slowly his breathing returned to normal, the desperation in his kiss turning into something softer, as she wrapped her arms around him. “Rowan, Maker, thank you.” He kissed her cheeks, softly.

“I did nothing, honestly.”  She leaned into his touch. “I just listened.”

“And that is everything.” For a moment he just held her, letting the last vestiges of pain ebb away. And then he smiled, a genuine grin that broke across face.

She returned it with one of her own.  “What is it?”

His hand reached down to her waist, and pulled her tightly against him.  “I suddenly feel lighter than I have in years.  And I’m lying here, with you.”  He leaned in to whisper in her ear.  “And we are quite naked.”

She pulled back, her eyes growing wide with a falsely innocent look on her face.  “We are? How shocking.  Whatever should we do about it?”

He ran a hand over her backside, and fit her against him, his eyes darkening with desire.  “I can think of quite a few things.”

“Do tell.”

“I’d rather show you,” he growled.

“Even better.”

The pages who stopped by throughout the day as the Commander worked at his desk wondered about the the small eddies of snow that swirled about the office, but made no comment on the odd phenomena.  His good mood seemed to coincide with it, and they were not about to do anything that would disrupt something that they felt was well-deserved.


	66. His heavy rings uncoiled from glimmering deep to deep: When will he wake from sleep?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unity is cemented, changes come to pass, the dreamer awakes from sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has been so patient with me as I work on this story. I will try not to have such long delays between chapters anymore, especially as the end is in sight.

The light streamed in through the gap in the ceiling, cold pale sun struggling to bring warmth to Skyhold despite the frigid temperatures. She blinked, lifting an arm to shield her eyes from the brightness. Daylight. Below she could hear the noises of the day, and if she strained, she imagined she could hear the slight metallic shift of Cullen's armor. She could almost pretend that she was anyone, a normal woman waking up in the bed of the man she loved.

It was impossible to avoid what was coming next. She wanted to just stay buried in the warmth of the covers, to breathe in his scent and forget that the world outside of the cocoon that was the two of them existed.

But that wasn't reality. 

Reality was the glowing rift in her arm. It was the whispering in the back of her mind, and the people waiting for her to make decisions, to prepare for what she was sure would be the final showdown between herself and Corypheus.

It was facing what she was starting to remember from her time stuck in the Fade. 

She felt the emptiness at her breastbone. The talisman that she had worn since waking was gone, lost somewhere between the Arbor Wilds and her return through the Crossroads. With it went the protection from the denizens of the Fade that had undoubtedly been waiting.

With it also went the void that had been in place of what she had experienced. It was coming back bit by bit, moment by moment. Her father...who hadn’t been her father. The desire to be lost in the comfort of oblivion, not having to worry about the fate of the world.

Her four-legged protector who had been so much more. 

_ Fen'harel. _

Rowan knew that was who it was. Knew that the shadowy Wolf had shown himself to her, had revealed more to her than he had meant to.  But there was still a haze over the memory. She couldn't see his face, hear his voice.

She would be patient, learn the truth. And she would discover what he was hiding, what he wanted of her.

With a sigh, long and deep and speaking to the weariness that was ever increasing, she forced herself out to face the day, hoping for the hundredth time that Corypheus and his threat would have somehow dissipated in the night.  

The summons to the War Room that was waiting outside her own chambers when she arrived there told her otherwise. And once again she knew that arguments were likely to ensue over what she had already seen as her next steps.

She didn’t know, however, what awaited when Leliana’s runner summoned her to the gardens as she was intercepted on the way to meet her councilors. 

….

“I’m not talking about it, Seeker.”

“I did not ask you-”

“Not in so many words. But I can see that look in your eyes.  You want to know. You’re dying to know.  It’s the same as any of the readers of my serials. There’s a gleam when they run into me, hoping to get a glimpse at another chapter.  I’m surprised there isn’t drool.”

They had run into each other after receiving their summons, her coming from the training grounds, him from wrangling an angry pirate out of his chambers. “I merely asked how your day was, Varric.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “Months of little more than denigration and snide remarks, and you start asking me how my  _ day  _ is?” he scoffed.  “Not a chance.  You’re one step away from asking if I’m ‘all right’ and two from looking at me with pity.” Seeing Rivaini had already been a punch in the gut. There was no way he was going to spend time getting in touch with his  _ feelings _ with an armor-clad Seeker. That was shit reserved for the bottom of a third bottle. Or a fourth. His eyes hardened.  “Don’t. I know you know what  _ this  _ is,” he said, gesturing to himself.  “Treat me the way you wanted to be treated. The way you still do.”

“I-” She stopped herself. Took a moment before speaking again.  “Yes.  You’re right.”

He blinked. “Pardon? Could you say that again, maybe a little louder, for posterity’s sake?”

Her eyes flashed. “I said that you were correct, Varric,” she growled between gritted teeth.  “Do not make me regret that concession.”

There was a hint of mirth in his eyes that was fleeting, as it had been since Adamant.  But at least it could still exist, which startled even him. He thought it had been left behind in the Fade when that rift closed on his heart.  “Oh no, I’ll cherish this moment for all time.  Maybe record it in my diary. ‘You’ll never believe what happened today. The mighty Cassandra Pentaghast was laid low by the machinations of a dwarf.’”

“You enjoy trying my patience.”

“That I do, Seeker.”  He looked at the group of councilors and members of Rowan’s party slowly making their way to the war room.  “Should we go see what kind of shit we’re going to get into next? Having us all in on the planning means giant fucking piles of nothing good.”

“No, and very likely it shall be something that will have Commander Cullen sputter with fury,” she said under her breath.

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Well. There’s hope for you yet.”

….

“A dragon. You have to tame a  _ dragon _ ?” To say Cullen’s voice was incredulous was an understatement. There were notes in his register that expressed disbelief that even Rowan hadn't heard.

“It’s what the…” she hesitated slightly, because even she didn't quite believe it, “...the voices are telling me. They're insistent about it, in fact. You've been briefed as to what happened in the Wilds. I don't know what's inside of me, what happened, but I know that to defeat Corypheus, this is the path I have to follow.”

_ She will lead you to victory. _

“I will come with you in this endeavor, of course,” Morrigan said at her side. “I know now that much of what I believed to be true was in fact...misguided. As a great many things have been.”

Leliana met her eyes, but she shook her head slightly. Rowan had no intention of divulging that part of Morrigan’s life. It was personal, what happened between her mother and her son.  As far as the  _ geas  _ and its effect on her...she’d need to talk to Solas to find out exactly how much power the elven goddess would have over her.  

Her journey through the Fade with the Witch of the Wild had unnerved her.  Being compelled to still Morrigan’s hand frightened her. Watching the soul of an Old God removed from the body of a child had left her cold. Coming face to face with Flemeth, Asha’bellanar, made her want to whimper in terror.  Find out that she was in fact Mythal...her world had been tilted on its axis.

It had all been worth it to keep Morrigan free.

_ The Mother will destroy the anathema.  You are her conduit. _

“You’ve already faced one dragon, and barely survived the encounter, Inquisitor.” It was Josephine, not her Commander, who spoke up.

She nodded, but wouldn’t be swayed. “Barely survived because I was impulsive, because I went in unprepared.  I know what I’ll be facing, and what I have to do to prepare for this battle.”

_ Show it your strength, the might of Mythal, and it will bow to your command. _

“We must stop Corypheus.  The only way to do so is to defeat his lyrium dragon, his ability to regenerate.  If I don’t succeed at this, someone will. Someone must. Every choice I’ve made to this point, every decision, every deed.  They have all led to this.  To find a way to defeat him once and for all.”

_ You are a daughter of the People, long lost but still of her womb.  She wishes your victory.  _

The voices grew louder, more insistent, the buzzing a hum, a rhythm in her ears that drowned out her pulse.  She raised her voice unconsciously.  “I was forced to bear the mark on my hand, this Anchor that we don’t fully understand.  But I agreed to become your Inquisitor, made the choice to lead you all to victory if it was in my power.  Doubt the powers that we’ve encountered. Doubt the magic, the ancient words, the rituals. Doubt everything.  But do not doubt  _ me. _ ”

The room grew silent, only the wind daring to follow in the wake of her declaration.

“You have my sword and shield, Inquisitor,” came Cassandra’s voice from behind her.

“I’ve got your back, Grace. And so does Bianca.”

“If the first dragon didn’t kill us, the second one doesn’t stand a chance, Boss.”

“You magnificent ass, of course you’d word it that way; you’re looking forward to more scars.  You’ve kept us from total destruction this long, Dove.  No reason to start disbelieving you now.”

“Brighter, braver, bolder than the beginning, the sun is dim before you. They tell you so you’ll believe. They need you to believe.” Cole paused. “I already do.”

“Dragons, right? Need arrows stuck in ‘em almost as bad as Coryphenuts.  Might as well see the end, yeah?”

“My dear, you know you have my power at your disposal.”

There were two voices missing from among her people.  Blackwall...Rainier...had gone to Weisshaupt, searching for redemption and to discover what had driven the Wardens into silence.  Perhaps he, too, would find the peace he needed.

And Solas….

_ Ancient bonds are not so easily broken. Do not let that slip away. _

She looked over at the group that had assembled in front of her.  These disparate people had become her family, her loved ones, taking on a role that her clan had refused.  She glanced back at Cullen, pride and a depth of emotion that took her breath away shining in his golden eyes. Leliana and Josephine nodded their assent, adding their strength to hers, silently showing their loyalty and commitment.

_ What has been so long lost can be found once more. _

“I’ve  _ been _ lost,” she said, answering the voices and addressing her people at the same time.  “For so long I’ve been alone, an outcast, different and unwanted and unloved.  You’ve shown me that I am more than what I thought I would be, more than I thought I ever  _ could  _ be.  You’ve accepted me as Herald, elected me as Inquisitor...but you chose me as your friend, your companion.  And that is worth more to me than I can ever say, more than I could possibly repay.”  Tears threatened, but she forced them back, the need for calm, the steady coolness that she found at her core more important than ever at that moment.  “I’ve found myself through all of you, through knowing you, fighting and bleeding and laughing and crying alongside you.  You are my home.” Her voice hardened, brokering no argument.  “And I will protect my home, and all its inhabitants.  My family.  Corypheus  _ will  _ fall.”

“It is for this reason that you were sent to us,” Leliana said, simple conviction in her voice.  “The Maker chose you for this task, for us to be your arsenal.  We are at your disposal, Rowan Lavellan.”

The others nodded, silently pledging their allegiance to her once more.  “Thank you all.  There is...one more thing I have to attend to,” she said, her thoughts on her missing kinsman, “and then we’ll tame a dragon and vanquish an Elder One.”  The fierce smile on her face was worthy of Hawke.

Varric chuckled slightly, the noise sudden and unexpected.  The others glanced at him, and he just shrugged. “Kicking the ass of a god.  Seems like you’re picking up where she left off, Grace.”

“It’s the least I can do, Author. I may not have her...flair...but I’ll finish what she started.” 

The voices had once again retreated, their message received, giving her time to think, to address the assembled group, but as soon as she stopped talking, they returned with a vengeance.

_ Find him. Join his strength to yours, his time in the shadows has passed _

“Please let me know as soon as we’re ready to leave.  I need to gather our last member,” she said, and slipped past the group, heading out to find Solas.

….

She was too close to finding out everything, far too close to having the entire facade he had so carefully built fall away so that he would be standing, exposed, naked and unable to avoid the truth under her gaze.

_ Untold centuries of staying undetected, unknown, and in a matter of months she unravels your carefully woven tapestry.  You called her an insect, but she’s outmaneuvered you, for all of her quick-blooded lack of experience.   _ You, _ Fen’Harel. Solas. Evanuris. _

_ You let your heart override your head. _

“Fenedhis,” he spat.  “Stupid old fool.”

“Lethal’lin.”  

His heart stuttered. Stopped.  Began again, quick and unsteady as it always did when she was in his midst.  He closed his eyes against the assault of her being, gathered the core of steely strength that seemed to too often slip from his grasp, and turned to meet her eyes.

“Lethal’lan.  Now is not-”

“We’re going to the altar of Mythal,” she said without preamble, stopping his words short.  “There is a dragon there, a guardian who will help us defeat Corypheus, Maker and Creators willing.”  Rowan stopped, and he could see her magic swirling around her, blue and pure and delicately enhanced since she had taken on Mythal’s geas. It was beautiful in a way he hadn't seen since Arlathan.  She met his eyes.  “I need you with me.”

“I cannot-”

“You  _ can, _ ” she said, again interrupting him.  He was taken aback by her forcefulness, something new and not welcome, “and you  _ will _ , Solas.  I made my choice at the Well, one that I didn’t make lightly, one that I made for reasons that are my own.  If you are unhappy that I did so, I can accept that.  If you want to be angry with  _ me _ , if it destroys the kinship that we share, so be it, but this has ramifications far beyond the two of us.  Unless you are rescinding your assistance in defeating Corypheus,  _ you will come with me. _ ”

He blinked.  “You have changed, Lethal’lan.”

“It’s impossible for me to have not, Lethal’lin,” she said, the gentle tone that he associated with her returning.  “The world has been rent, I’ve made friends and watched them sacrifice themselves.  I’ve had to make decisions that affect lives, affect nations.  If I had stayed as I was, I would have gone mad long before now. And maybe I have. I listen to disembodied voices.”  She tilted her head to the side as though listening to someone, and he knew that she had the voices of Arlathan making their demands known.  He had wanted to avoid that situation, keep her from their influence, from Mythal’s demands...and he had failed.  His anger was at himself, not at her, and he had hoped with distance he would be able to keep his emotions at bay.

But she would not let him disappear, hide in the shadows.  She never did, constantly dragging him into the light with her gentle insistence.  And so once again he was forced to confront his traitorous heart.  “You are wise beyond your years, Rowan.”  He inclined his head slightly.  “I will join you.”

Her smile warmed him, and he hated his weakness. “Thank you, Solas.  To do this without you, to see this through to the end if you weren’t by my side...it would be wrong.  You’ve been with me since the beginning, have guided me along the way, helped me, helped all of us get to this point.  You belong with us.”

_ If only you knew how wrong you were. _ He stayed silent, expressionless in the face of her certainty, the bland demeanor serving him well once again, hiding the turmoil in his mind and heart.  “The end is nearly upon us; we shouldn’t delay.” But oh how he wanted to, to hold back what he knew would come after Corypheus had been defeated, keep the inevitable suffering that she would face at bay for just a little longer.  Fate wasn’t kind, it was cruel and could not be stopped.  He had to steel his resolve, chill his heart, remember that what he sought was greater than the fleeting love of a quickened child.

But oh, how he wished it was otherwise.

“We should be leaving by first light.”  She put a hand on his arm, and his eyes met hers.  She would pierce his soul with her gaze, but he couldn’t look away.  “That sadness...how I wish I could chase it from you, ma’falon.  Perhaps after all is said and done, as long as...as long as we return.”  He knew what she wouldn’t say, that she feared her own mortality.  He wanted to safeguard her from that unknown, but she wouldn’t have let him even if he voiced his desire.  She stretched up and brushed her lips against his cheek.  “Ma serannas, Solas.  For everything.”  His skin burned and he wanted to pull her closer, embrace her, lose himself in her touch, be what she thought he was, be worthy of her.

Instead, he let her go, a quiet, “Ara melava son’ganem,” his only response to her.

He let his heart crumble as he watched her walk away.

…

The water lapped at the sand, smoothing it gently, a blanket on the bed of the shoreline. A wind barely stirred, making slight eddies with the delicate tan grains that had slipped within the cracks of the wood of the floor. The dancing drew the eye, mesmerizing with its patterns along the planks, random markings akin to the sigils within a spell. It was quiet, only the distant sounds of sea birds breaking the ebb and flow of the waves. Peace was absolute.

And she was absolutely bored out of her fucking mind.

She glanced down at the glass of wine in her hand. When had she started drinking wine? She had grown accustomed to the swill at the...the name was just out of her reach. There was a haze over it, clouding her memory, and part of her didn't want to struggle to remember. It was easier to not worry, to swirl her glass and sip a liquid that wasn't quite what she wanted and live in the peaceful surroundings that left her shoulder blades itching. 

And so she settled back against the chair, closing her eyes and trying to simply embrace her surroundings. She inhaled the salt sea air, holding it, exhaling. Repeated it. Again.

_ Give it a fucking rest, Marian. _

She looked around for the source of the voice, but there was nothing. She closed her eyes again, shaking her head slowly.

_ Don't be more of an idiot than you already have been. You'd kick your own ass if you could see yourself. _

There was no one else. She stood, peering over the balcony, looking everywhere. But no, there was no gravel-voiced sherry-eyed asshole making his opinion known.

_ Sherry-eyed? _

_ That was always your descriptor. I hate sherry. _

_ But you made me drink it with all of those idiotic nobles whenever it was time to drag out the Champion and make the rounds of hob-nobbing. _

_ Make you? When did I make you do anything? _

_ How about that night at the Hanged Man when Fenris- _

The Hanged Man. That was the name. In Kirkwall. Her home.

Their home.

_ Varric? _

_ About damn time you remembered me. I didn't think I was that forgettable. _

_ Where am I? _

_ How in the Void should I know? This is your life, your mind. I'm just along for the metaphysical ride. _

_ You're as unhelpful as always. _

_ I'd hate to spoil you by giving you all of the answers. _

_ I like spoilers. Spoil away. _

_ You were always pushy about that. You'll have to wait for the answers like everyone else. _

_ Where have you been?  _ She had put down her glass, the taste compared to the ale at her former haunt unpalatable once her memory was clear.

_ Biding my time until you got around to realizing this wasn't where you belonged. But you were so fucking sure that this was where you belonged that I couldn't keep quiet any longer. _

_ You could have said something sooner.  _

_ No, I couldn't. You wouldn't let me. But now we can focus on more important things. _

_ Like getting home? _

_ Exactly. Hopefully there's still a home to go to, but I suspect even here you'd have an idea if everything had gone to, well, wherever Corypheus wanted to send it.  _

_ So, how do I get out of here?  _ She looked down at the gown she was wearing, beautiful and flowing and cut daringly low. It was ridiculous, and she wanted  _ her  _ clothes back. This wasn't her; it was some ideal that she had never been meant to fulfill. She looked about for something familiar. The whole scenario was like a fantasy for someone else.

_ Damned if I know. Weird magic shit is your thing. Witty repartee and writing are mine. _

_ I'm starting to wonder why I missed you.  _ She was lying, of course. She knew.

_ You know. _

_ Yeah.  _

_ We'll deal with that, too. Later. Now is for leaving this little idyllic scene. I recommend you start with the door. _

_ I’d already come to that conclusion. _

She reached out to take the handle, but the door swung open towards her, forcing her to take a step back. 

_ Shit. _

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the previous authors whose works have inspired me to try my hand at this, most especially [Zombolouge](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zombolouge/pseuds/zombolouge) and [Parsnip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnip), for their excellent works, [Tearing Down the Heavens ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/221141) and [Calling on Song](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3478076), respectively. 
> 
> I'd also very much like to recommend [Eisen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen) and his lovely stories. I have the great privilege of being his editor. Go read his work, and harass him for more. You can thank/blame him for more frequent updating as well.
> 
> Oh, and have you read [MaryDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon) and her wonderful works? No? GO DO THAT NOW.
> 
> Also, thanks to FenxShiral for his Project Elvhen for filling out some of the language for this work, as well as Katiebour's Best Guess at Elvhen Dictionary. Any errors in Elvhen are mine alone, which I strive to correct whenever possible.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Agents of Change: Reformation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816694) by [Eisen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen)




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